


Jaws

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cam boy, Choking, Crushes, Dogs, F/F, Family, Family Angst, Healing, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Era, Sex Work, Stripper AU, coming home, cute domestic stuff, friendly bullying, lap dance, past Jean/Reiner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-03-08 03:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 108,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: Reiner Braun is fine.  Really, he is.  It's been several months since his last relationship went down in a blaze of drama, and he's just... he's fine.  He's coping.  He works, he goes to the gym, he comes home, repeat repeat repeat.  This is just how his life is supposed to be.He'sfine.Except he's not fine, and he realizes this when his dear friend Historia and her girlfriend Ymir drag him to a strip club and insist on buying him a lap dance.  Then everything changes, and it'll never be the same again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the brilliant artwork of Kaschy on Tumblr, and hashed out over Discord with my bff Dees.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ymir, never the most subtle of individuals, even at the best of times, drapes herself over the back of Reiner’s chair, crossing her arms and resting her pointed chin on them. They’re covered with ratty, unraveling sweater sleeves at the moment, but Reiner knows that underneath the slowly dying stitches she’s covered with ink, her tattoos winding and crawling up and down both arms. Some of the work is her own, of which she’s very proud. “You’ve been cooped up here for months, it’s time for you to get out there and shake your tail feathers again.”

Reiner grimaces. “I’m not wearing that peacock outfit again.” He’d found glitter all over his house and in his ass cracks for _weeks_ after that Pride parade.

Ymir glowers at him. “First of all, that peacock outfit is a work of art, and you better not talk shit about it again. And secondly, that was metaphorical, not literal.”

The peacock outfit _is_ a work of art, but that really isn’t the point here. Reiner glowers right back, refusing to be bullied in his own home, and shakes his head. “I’m not going to a strip club.”

“But we’re worried about you.” Historia emerges from the bathroom, where she’d been fixing a hairstyle that hadn’t needed fixing, and Reiner can feel his resistance start to wilt. He and Ymir frequently get along like oil and water, but they can both agree on one thing: they’d do anything for Historia, especially when she widens her eyes and deliberately, purposefully, makes herself look as cute and sad as she can. 

Which is quite a bit.

“You haven’t gone out in such a long time.” Historia settles herself right next to Reiner, pressing up against the side of his arm, and Reiner has to bite his cheek to keep from grinning when Ymir bristles. He and Historia had tried to have something together, back in the dark and long forgotten days of high school, but it had ended in a flurry of self-discovery and teenaged drama. If Reiner was in the market for a beard, Historia would be an excellent, parent-pleasing choice, but he isn’t, and neither is she. They’re long past the point of pretending to be something they aren’t for the sake of parental approval. “You just spend all your time cooped up in here, watching ESPN.”

“Sometimes I watch HBO.” Reiner particularly likes Game of Thrones, even if he does find it rather fan-servicey for the straight male.

Ymir guffaws rudely. “Not the point, bro.”

Historia frowns, putting a line in the skin of her porcelain forehead, and leans harder against Reiner’s arm. He knows she’s trying to get him to put his arm around her, and damn if he’s not tempted. He’s always had a weakness for wanting to protect people, and Historia knows how to push all his buttons. He deliberately keeps his arm clamped tight to his side. “No, that’s _not_ the point. We’re worried about you.”

Damn it, there it is. Reiner hates making people worry about him; there are so many other, more important things to worry over. “I’m fine. You know that. I’m fine.”

What’s there to worry over? He has a good job, a nice apartment, and he sends money home every month. His mother says she’s proud of him, and he gets to see Gabi a couple of times a month. Sure, he’d like to get a dog, but who has time for that, these days? The last living thing besides himself to reside in his apartment was a plant, and it slowly strangled to death from lack of water before he remembered it was there.

Maybe he’s better off not getting a dog.

Ymir rolls her eyes, and Historia makes a soft, questioning sound in the back of her throat.

“What? I _am_ ,” Reiner insists, and then closes his mouth; when you have to start insisting you’re fine, that’s usually an indication that you’re not.

“Look, we’re not asking for your firstborn gay ass baby here.” Ymir launches herself over the back of the chair, landing with a plop in its seat. “We just want you to come to a strip club with us.”

Historia presses ever more insistently into him, putting his shoulder to sleep, and with a sigh, Reiner gives in and puts his arm around her. He’s only doing it to keep his hand from getting all tingly, he tells himself, and completely ignores how damn _good_ it feels to have someone snuggled against him. “I don’t have to get a lap dance, do I?”

He’s picturing a straight man’s strip club, full of glitter and booze and deafening, thumping music, all jiggling fake tits and flat, thrusting crotches. Which, hey, if that’s what Historia and Ymir want to go see, then fine, he’ll tag along if it’ll get them off his case. He just doesn’t want to make some poor stripper try to get a rise out of him and fail miserably; there’s nothing sadder than a woman working her hardest to get his attention and completely missing the mark.

Ymir grins wickedly. “We promise we won’t make you get a lap dance from anyone you’re not interested in.”

Reiner sighs, and Historia squeaks happily, burrowing into his shoulder, recognizing the sound of acquiesce. 

“All right, fine. But no lap dances.”

~*~

It isn’t until too late that Reiner realizes the flaw in his wording. _Anyone you’re not interested in_ would work fine, under normal circumstances; it would eliminate ninety percent of the strippers in the world. Of course, Historia and Ymir know this, and found a loophole.

Reiner looks at the banner draped over the strip club’s door, loudly proclaiming LADIES NIGHT, and feels his soul die a little at a time.

“Yeah!” Ymir is undaunted by the prospect of lots of scantily clad men around her, and waves her beer stein over her head. “Let’s see some dicks!”

A bachelorette party group next to them titters, the bride’s face flushed and excited, and Reiner sinks a little lower in his chair. He’s the only man in the room.

Historia looks at him and frowns, biting her lower lip. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” This is fine. He can handle this. They’ll watch the show, Ymir will have her fun, and then he can go home. Maybe if he’s lucky, Reiner will be able to catch the end of tonight’s football match; it’s streaming from Germany, so he should be okay.

Historia glances at Ymir, who’s decided to start chatting with one of the bachelorette ladies—they all look impossibly young, almost Gabi’s age, and that breaks Reiner’s heart a little—then sidles up closer to him. “Are you _really_ okay?”

Reiner gives her a big, jaw-splitting grin and sits up straighter. Fake it till you make it, and he’s not faking it very well right now. “Fine. Great. This’ll be fun!”

Historia looks like she wants to say more, but then the lights go down, the music gets louder, and whatever she had in mind is lost in a cacophony of hooting and squealing. Reiner pats Historia’s shoulder, still grinning, and points towards the stage as the first of the performers come out.

The show isn’t… it isn’t _bad_ , exactly; the ladies in the audience certainly enjoy it, especially the young bride-to-be, who gets pulled up on the stage at one point for a lap dance from two guys at once. The performers are handsome enough, and their moves are choreographed and engaging to watch. That’s all it is, though: a modern, vaguely skeezy version of ballet with minimal costuming, and Reiner finds his attention wandering. He even gets up and excuses himself at one point, when a performer who’s long and lean, with a narrow face and a shock of brightly dyed blond hair, gets his own moment on the stage; there’s a lot Reiner can tolerate, but he doesn’t want to watch that.

He comes back just as the first show is ending and the lights are slowly brightening, and the club smells like sweat and alcohol and fun that other people are having as Reiner slides into his seat next to Historia. He’s about to ask if they can leave when Ymir slides a cheaply printed paper menu in front of him. “Which one do you want?”

Reiner takes one look at the menu and tries to shove it back to her. “You said I didn’t have to get a lap dance.”

“I said you didn’t have to get a lap dance from anyone you’re not interested in.” Ymir looks smug, knowing she has him in her crosshairs. “You’re going to tell me you’re not interested in _any_ of these guys?”

“No.” Reiner keeps trying to push the menu back to her. “I don’t want one.”

“Ymir, maybe we should…” Historia starts, but Ymir shakes her head, glaring fiercely at her girlfriend. 

“He’s getting a lap dance tonight, and if he won’t pick one, then I’ll do it for him.” Ymir scoops up the menu and starts perusing it. “What was the one guy’s name, the one that looked like Je…”

“No!” Reiner snatches the menu out of her hands so quickly that she hisses and draws her fingers to her chest, nursing a fresh paper cut. Reiner isn’t sorry; he’ll suffer a lot of indignities, but he won’t, absolutely will _not_ , accept a lap dance from the stripper who looks like his ex. “If I choose one and get the damn lap dance, can we go?”

“Of course.” Ymir smiles sunnily and hands him a little golf pencil. “Pick your poison.”

Reiner takes the menu and barely glances at it before checking off one of the strippers and handing it back. It doesn’t matter who he chooses, as long as it’s not the one who looks like Jean, and as long as the dancer’s little gimmick that’s supposed to be sexy isn’t dressing like a cop. The one he chose was bare-chested, with slicked back hair, and he figures that’s good enough.

“All right!” Ymir waves down a waitress, who comes and takes the menu with a smile. “One champagne room special for my guy here!”

Reiner sinks into his chair again and throws back the rest of his drink, wishing it wasn’t so watered down. He ignores Historia’s attempts to engage him in nervous conversation as they wait, and even goes so far as to swipe her drink and down it, even as the sugary syrup in it makes him want to gag. It’s not her fault, he knows—this has the stamp of Ymir all over it—but she’s been complicit, and needs to know it.

Reiner doesn’t look up until he hears a new voice, one throaty and masculine, from the side of their table.

“Good evening, ladies.” The bachelorette group giggles beside them, and Reiner feels like he’s descended into the sixth level of hell. “Which one of you beauties wants to party?”

Historia starts to speak, but Ymir butts in in front of her. “This guy, actually,” she tells the stripper, dropping a stingingly hard slap on Reiner’s shoulder, and Reiner dares to look up for the first time.

The performer doesn’t immediately stand out as anything spectacular, in Reiner’s opinion. He’s of average height and build—maybe a little more cut than normal, but not overwhelmingly so—with broad cheekbones and a slightly turned up nose that might have been cute when he was younger but now looks kind of silly. The only things that stand out about him are his hair—a reddish blond, too subtle with its highlights to be anything but natural—and his costume: a simple pair of black, boy-cut shorts that offer far more coverage than the other performers’ g-strings and assless chaps, making him look almost modest by comparison. He also has, Reiner notices, a slight reddish fuzz on his chest and growing in a line that disappears into his shorts, noticeably different from the other performers’ waxed and buffed hairlessness, and the tiniest spark of curiosity fires in Reiner’s chest.

The performer is looking at him quizzically, but when Reiner meets his eyes, he breaks into a wide, slightly devilish grin. “All right, then. What’s your name, big guy?” And he offers his hand to Reiner.

Reiner takes it, and the performer hoists him to his feet with a tug that’s a lot stronger than Reiner expected. He stumbles a little as he stands up, and the performer catches him, putting a hand on his chest to steady him.

It’s the first time anyone has touched him there since Jean left.

“His name is Reiner,” Historia supplies helpfully, as Reiner tries to answer and finds his vocal cords frozen.

“All right, Reiner.” The performer thumps him on the chest, hard enough to startle Reiner out of his daze, and then lets him go. “My name is Jaws, and…” He pointedly looks Reiner up and down, one red-gold eyebrow rising suggestively, and Reiner’s mouth is suddenly dry. “And I think I’m going to need a bigger load.”

It is, objectively, a terrible line. It’s cheesy, and not even remotely sexy, and it even has Ymir raising her eyebrows and making a gagging noise to Historia. So Reiner has no idea why it makes him suddenly bark laughter, to the surprise of everyone around them, or why it makes him thaw out a little and nod at the performer. “Do you bite, Jaws?”

Jaws’ grin widens, and he beckons to Reiner with one finger. “Sure, but it costs extra.”

Ymir’s arm snakes past Reiner’s shoulder and shoves a fifty dollar bill in Jaws’ face. He takes it without a word, makes it disappear in his briefs—which suddenly seem a lot shorter and more risqué than Reiner had first appreciated—and then turns and walks away, expecting Reiner to follow.

It’s Historia who pushes on the small of Reiner’s back, her hands tiny but insistent. “Go!” She giggles softly. “He’s cute, I like him.”

As Reiner gets his feet moving, he hears Ymir comment, “Yeah, but he’s a ginger. That means he doesn’t have a soul.”

“Ymir!”

“What? That’s science!”

“It is _not_!”

The sound of their bickering fades as Reiner follows Jaws through the club; Jaws is shorter than he is, but that hair is like a beacon, leading Reiner on as Jaws weaves deftly and swiftly through the crowd. They go to the back of the club, where tatty, fake velvet curtains separate the champagne rooms from prying, curious eyes, and Jaws stops there, waiting for Reiner to catch up.

“Now,” he says, once Reiner joins him, “you don’t really seem like the kind of guest that wants a cowboy or policeman or firefighter theme, do you?”

Reiner shakes his head; he’s definitely not interested in any of those, especially not the policeman.

“Didn’t think so.” Jaws’ eyes move up Reiner’s chest to settle on his face, and Reiner realizes they’re a bright, grayish shade of hazel. “You’re too classy for shit like that, huh?”

That sounds almost accusatory, and Reiner shakes his head again. “I’m not classy.”

“The hell you’re not.” Jaws’ hand strikes out, catching the tip of Reiner’s tie and flipping it up over his shoulder. “You wore a tie? _Here_? What’re you trying to prove?”

Reiner gestures back behind himself, in the general direction of his vacated table. “They didn’t give me time to change.”

Jaws studies him for a moment more, then shrugs. “Sure, whatever. Don’t know why you’re here if you can afford anything better, but that’s not my problem.” That flash of a grin again, the sudden return of cockiness. “Besides, I’m the best money can buy.”

Reiner only has a moment to ponder that statement before Jaws is pulling back a dove gray curtain and gesturing to the room behind it. “Go on. Go have a seat.”

The room is done up simply, but relatively tastefully. It’s all muted, neutral colors, nothing bright or showy, and the chair in the middle of it is simple, black cane work. Reiner goes and sits down, spreading his knees a little and watching Jaws.

The performer closes the curtain, securing it in place with some velcro, then flips a little switch on the wall. No lights come on, so Reiner assumes it’s to let everyone outside know that this room is occupied. Then the performer hangs his head for a moment, his back to Reiner, and Reiner watches as tension creeps up Jaws’ back, the muscles going temporarily rigid. He has a sudden, hideous premonition: what if Jaws is straight? Most male strippers are, he knows, and the absolute last thing he needs to deal with tonight is straight panic. He opens his mouth, about to call the whole thing off, but then Jaws turns around.  


The tension is gone; Jaws’ whole demeanor has changed, and it’s like Reiner is seeing a different person. His posture is cocky, almost arrogant with the way he’s got one hip jutted to the side, and that grin on his face can only be described as shit-eating. “Now, we’ve got a few rules here, big guy, so listen up.”

Reiner is listening, and Jaws starts slowly shimmying closer. “Number one: don’t touch the merchandise. You’re going to be tempted, because I’m _just that good_ , but don’t do it. In fact, hands on your knees where I can see them, right now.”

There is no question of not obeying; Reiner’s hands clench in loose fists on his knees, and Jaws nods approvingly. “Number two: it’s over when I say it’s over. If you want to pay for more time, we can do that, but if you start being creepy, I walk. Understood?”

“Understood.” Reiner’s voice is breathy and soft, and he wonders when he started feeling coiling knots of tension in his gut.

“All right. And number three…” And suddenly Jaws is up in Reiner’s space, hands on his shoulders and arms straight out, leaning in and over Reiner’s face, forcing him to tilt his neck back. “Number three is to have fun.”

Reiner barely has time to register how close Jaws has gotten before he’s spinning away, and the lap dance begins in earnest.

Jaws moves with a sinuous, natural grace, the kind that can’t be taught by even the most diligent ballet instructor, and he’s a lot more flexible than he looks. He proves that again and again, with his ankles ending up propped on Reiner’s shoulders more often than Reiner’d have thought possible, and his hips moving in ways that would make Reiner’s pop and groan. There’s a little of the typical lap dance bump and grind, but it’s mostly Jaws’ graceful, energetic dancing, and Reiner is transfixed. He’s never seen anyone move like this, feral and refined at the same time, and his throat goes dry, his heart starts hammering in his chest, and it gets harder and harder to keep his hands on his knees. Jaws, the little shit, seems all too aware of the effect he’s having on Reiner, and the grin keeps stretching wider, the confidence growing, and the dance starts changing, starts becoming more deliberately provocative, until he’s practically in Reiner’s lap, his hands on Reiner’s shoulders and his fuzzy chest just scant inches from Reiner’s face, and Reiner realizes dully that he has an erection for the first time he can remember. 

The music ends abruptly, and so does the dance, with Jaws very nearly pressed against Reiner’s chest, his muscular thighs pressing in on either side of Reiner’s hips, and his lips so close that Reiner can feel him panting on his cheek. They freeze like that, with Reiner’s hands still on his knees like a good boy, and Jaws flashes him a bright, prideful grin, like he knows exactly what he's done to Reiner, before abruptly clamoring off.

“You’ve been a blast, big guy,” he says cheerfully, walking back to the curtain and pulling the velcro loose with the loud ripping sound of rendered fantasies, “but this is where you get off.” He looks over his shoulder and drops a wink that somehow manages to be both lewd and endearing at the same time. “Just not in here, though, because then I’d have to clean it up.”

Reiner blinks a couple of times, and the world slowly starts spinning on its axis again. “Right,” he says, and flexes his hands on his knees a couple of times. “Right.”

He gets up, and walks stiffly towards the curtained door. Jaws stops him by holding up a hand, and Reiner jerks to a halt, surprised and somehow wondering, somehow hopeful… until Jaws simply reaches out and untucks Reiner’s shirt, pulling it out and over his crotch, hiding the noticeable bulge there.

“Don’t want to offend the ladies.” And with a pat to Reiner’s ass, Jaws shoos him out and closes the curtain behind him.

Reiner wanders through the club, which seems much more crowded and noisy than it had been before, and would have walked right past their table if Historia hadn’t reached out and caught his wrist.

“Reiner!” She stands up, barely reaching the level of Reiner’s chest, and tugs on his shirt, getting him to bend down so she can look him in the eye. “Are you okay? You look all… drifty.”

“He’s fiiiiine!” Ymir pops up beside her, slinging an arm around Historia’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t check his underwear if I were you, but he’s fine!”

Reiner nods. “I’m fine. It’s okay.” It’s easier to agree than to try and describe what he doesn’t think he can even explain to himself.

Historia is unconvinced. “You didn’t drink anything in there, did you? He didn’t roofie you, did he?”

“Roofie… oh god, Historia, this isn’t that kind of place! Reiner didn’t get roofied, he’s just turned on! Right?” And suddenly Ymir is plucking at the hem of Reiner’s shirt, her brows drawn down over her eyes. “Right, Reiner?”

It’s Ymir’s concern, more than anything, that snaps Reiner out of it, and he nods. With the motion, the world starts to bleed back in. “That’s it exactly.” He tries on a smile, and finds it fits his face. “I’m fine, just… that was intense, that’s all. Jaws is a good dancer.”

Ymir guffaws, and Reiner is touched by the relief he hears in it. “I bet he is!”

Historia takes one of Reiner’s hands in both of hers, and he realizes too late that his palms are slick with sweat. “Do you still want to go home?”

“You know, I think I do.” Reiner needs time to process what just happened, and he can’t do it here, with all the glitz and music and flesh on display. “I’m a little tired. It’s been a long week.”

Which is true, it has been, but really, he wants to go home and relive that lap dance in his head, and remember the feeling of Jaws pressed up in his lap. It means nothing, and he knows that; Reiner isn’t a fool, and he’s not about to assume that a stripper made a connection with a client. But he can’t pretend that that hadn’t gotten him hard for the first time in ages, and he has an urge to rub one out for the first time in months.

And he’s not going to do it in a strip club restroom. That would just be too sad for words, and a level he’s not willing to sink to.

Still, as they leave the club, Reiner looks over his shoulder, scanning the crowd for a swatch of reddish-gold hair. But Jaws is nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner is significantly thirstier and also a creeper.

Reiner drives home in a daze, barely aware of Historia and Ymir chattering away across the car. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this: dazed, his head spinning, unable to focus. And yet, at the same time, the light from the street lamps seems to be sharper than normal; Historia’s perfume lingers in the back of his nose, flowery and delicate; the sound of Ymir shifting and rustling in the backseat sends minute vibrations through the car. Distantly, Reiner realizes that he’s hungry.

“Reiner?”

“Hmmm?” They’re at a light, and he turns to look at Historia, blinking a few times and trying to clear his head.

“I asked if you were okay.” Historia’s perfectly shaped brows are drawn down in concern. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“What? No, I’m not mad.” He’s a lot of things right now—confused, aching, weirdly aware of everything around him—but Reiner isn’t mad. How can he be, when the image of Jaws’ flexible hips and flashing hazel eyes is seared into his mind?

“You’re so quiet…”

“He’s storing up materials in the spank bank!” Ymir leans her arms over the back of the front seat, grinning out of the side of her mouth at Reiner. “Aren’t you? That was a feisty little number you chose!”

Historia pokes her head around Ymir, a look of vague hope writ across her face. “He was really cute, Reiner, did you like him?”

He smiles then, how can he not, and nods. “Yes. I liked him.”

Ymir whoops obnoxiously, and slaps the back of Reiner’s shoulder. “See, I told you! A lap dance is for what ails you!”

“Should I buy you one the next time you’re feeling under the weather?” Reiner asks sweetly, and drives the rest of the way to their apartment building unmolested while the two ladies bicker with each other about the ethics of lap dances while in a relationship. Ymir is surprisingly prudish about this concept, much to Reiner’s delight, while Historia takes a more pragmatic approach.

“But it’s all an act. It’s not like it’s anything _real_ ,” she says as Reiner pulls into his marked, private parking spot. It’s one of the nicer buildings in downtown Trost, with underground parking, and while Historia and Ymir have a car, it’s usually Reiner who ends up driving. “You can’t call it cheating if there’s nothing behind it!”

“I just don’t like it, okay!” Ymir climbs out of the backseat, and rolls her eyes at Reiner. _Look what you’ve got me into_ , and Reiner shrugs unapologetically. Better to have this discussion now instead of later, he figures. 

He walks the ladies to the elevator, and rides with them to the fourteenth floor. When the door chimes politely and opens for them, Historia pauses long enough to turn around and put her arms up for a hug. Reiner obliges, remembering too late that he’s still sporting a pretty hefty erection, and doesn’t twist away soon enough. It presses, ever so briefly, against Historia’s hip, and her eyes are wide when they draw apart.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says, and chews at her lower lip for a moment. “I… goodness, no wonder we didn’t work out!”

Reiner can’t help it; he laughs into his hand, ducking his head so she can’t see his smile. “Sorry. If it’s any consolation, it’s not for you.”

“I know it’s not, just… _wow_.” Historia laughs too, a little breathily, a pretty flush rising to her cheeks. “Is that… that’s big, right? Bigger than normal?”

“NO!” Ymir wraps both her arms around Historia and starts dragging her off down the hall. “I don’t want to know! No hug for me, big guy, you keep that thing to yourself! Bye!”

“Goodbye.” Reiner waves at them as the elevator door closes and it starts rising towards his floor. 

His apartment is just two doors down from the elevator, and his hallway is quiet and pleasantly lit when the elevator doors whisper open. Reiner strides to his door and lets himself in.

His apartment stretches out before him, sterile, cool, and tastefully decorated. He’d hired an interior decorator when he took this place, and she’d done the apartment in muted, neutral tones, mostly grays and blues. It’s masculine, but not overly so, and all clean lines, everything with a place and everything in place. Reiner sets his keys in the little dish he keeps in the foyer for just such a job, toes off his shoes, and closes the door behind him.

The lights come on, alerted by his entrance that they’re needed, but they’re also on a timer, and don’t get too bright. Reiner’s glad for that; he doesn’t want to be under harsh, glaring lights right now. Everything still feels fragile, and he doesn’t want this vividness to fade away. He can already feel the apartment starting to lull him back to the real world, and he finds, to his surprise, that he doesn’t want to go. 

Not yet, at least.

Reiner settles into his spot on the couch—technically, the whole couch is his spot, but he finds he always sits in the same place—and puts his feet up on the ottoman. He thinks about turning on the TV to catch the end of the match, but no. For once, sports hold no appeal. Instead, he snags his laptop off the coffee table and props it across his knees.

It’s his personal laptop, an old brick that’s a hold-over from university, one of the few things in the apartment that doesn’t fit the modern, coolly understated theme. His work laptop is a smooth, high-powered MacBook Pro, but what he’s looking for tonight is nothing he wants to show up in his work browser. Reiner waits as the laptop boots up, humming quietly to itself, and as it does, he idly brushes the sides of his fingers along his erection. He’s had it for quite some time now; it starts to go down, and then he remembers, the scenes flashing behind his eyes like an old slideshow. The way Jaws’ mouth quirked up at one side when he grinned; the soft, downy fuzz nestled between Jaws’ chest muscles; the way Jaws hadn’t been afraid to get a little rough with him, pulling and tugging Reiner along to the room, and then slinging his legs up onto his shoulders; the way a tuft of Jaws’ hair had fallen out from the rest of it, dangling across his forehead by the end of the dance; but, more than anything, the way it had felt for that split moment at the end, when Jaws was practically in Reiner’s lap, his arms around Reiner’s neck and his mouth almost close enough to kiss, his breath panting over Reiner’s cheeks and his thighs pressed in around Reiner’s hips. Reiner thinks he’s doing better, that he’s going back to normal, and then one of those moments flashes past him again, and he’s lost.

With a sigh, he starts clicking through files on his laptop until he reaches the buried one entitled History Channel. He opens it, and starts perusing what’s inside.

It only takes a few minutes before Reiner realizes this is never going to work. None of the actors in his carefully curated porn collection look right. They’re either willowy and lean, with shaggy dark blond hair and devil-may-care grins, or dark-skinned and broad shouldered with black hair and deep, guarded eyes. There’s shockingly little diversity, and he wants something different today; he wants someone shorter, a little more compact than normal, with reddish-gold hair.

And he might as well change his clothes.

Reiner sets the old laptop aside—if he’s going to be using the internet for this, he can use his work one—and shleps off to the bedroom. One quick change into sweatpants and a t-shirt later, and he’s sprawled on his bed, opening a private browser window and trying to remember which porn websites are the good ones.

It turns out, after much fruitless searching, that there isn’t a lot of demand for squared-off, strawberry blond porn stars, and that’s extremely unfortunate, because Reiner’s dick is demanding nothing less. It’s being a vile little dictator tonight, refusing to get engaged for anyone who doesn’t look close enough to Jaws, and _no one_ looks close enough to Jaws. It’s just Reiner’s luck: he goes for months without being interested in porn or jerking off, months of being an emotional eunuch, and then when things suddenly swing back towards sexiness, his dick decides it wants to be picky.

This was a lot easier when he could just find porn of guys who looked like…

Reiner shuts down that line of thought immediately, and, in desperation, types _Jaws stripper male_ into Google.

He expects nothing, and is surprised when an ad for a cam show pops up almost immediately. It’s someone named Jaws, at least, a man, and currently ongoing. Reiner almost doesn’t click through, aware that he’s on his work computer, but he can’t help himself. Surely it’s a different Jaws, that name can’t be _that_ unique, and he’ll just take a quick peek and then log out and go to bed. It’s getting late, and while he doesn’t have work tomorrow, he also has a weekend schedule to keep.

Reiner taps his way through opening an account on the cam show site, and enters his credit card information. What can it hurt? It won’t be Jaws, it’ll be some other guy, and then he’ll just unsubscribe from the site’s mailing list in the morning. He waits, slightly impatient, touching his cock through the soft fabric of his sweatpants again, as the website processes his credit card information and his new username, and when it finally refreshes and congratulates him on his new adventure, Reiner hurriedly clicks through to Jaws’ live cam show.

He’s so expecting to see someone else that when Jaws’ face fills the screen— _his_ Jaws, reddish hair and all, that little cowlick falling over his forehead again—Reiner is so surprised that he almost fumbles and drops the computer.

“Hey,” Jaws says, speaking directly to the camera, wherever he is, “I see we’ve got a new member! Hi, titan23, welcome to the show.”

Reiner blinks, and feels himself stupidly flushing across his cheeks. He knows Jaws can’t see him, doesn’t know who he is, but he still checks the little light at the top of the computer’s screen, making sure the camera isn’t turned on. It’s not, and when he looks back at the screen, Jaws has turned his attention to something else. Reiner sees a little box on the side of the screen, filled with names and constant, crawling text. It’s the other people watching the show, he realizes, and he sees a little box where he can type out his own stuff. Tentatively, he tries it.

**titan23: hi**

Jaws sees it, and laughs brightly, making Reiner wince. That was a little too loud, a little too forced, to be entirely natural. He would know. He’s the master of the faked laugh at work.

“Hi, titan23.” Jaws drops a wink at the screen. “I hope you like what you’re seeing, and that you’ll stick around for awhile.”

What’s the protocol here, the etiquette? Should Reiner acknowledge that Jaws just spoke directly to him? Does he need to? He runs a hand through his hair, setting it up in spike, before he notices a button that says _Tip Jar_ on his screen. He taps it, and then is prompted to choose an amount. He selects five dollars, and sends it.

“Thank you, titan,” Jaws says almost immediately, and Reiner feels a little thrill run up his spine. They’re interacting, communicating through the screen, and it’s almost like being back in the champagne room. It’s almost like having their own little intimate space again. There’s something vaguely distasteful about it blatantly being for money, but it’s not like the lap dance wasn’t. Reiner isn’t so deluded to think they had any kind of connection. It’s just infatuation. That’s it. It’ll go away after he watches this cam show and jerks off.

**marlsrules: take ur shorts off**

**iamayam: want dik**

Reiner frowns; the other men watching the show are apparently less interested in bonding and more interested in debauchery. He’s struck by a sudden, almost gentlemanly urge to protect Jaws from all of it, to sweep him away somewhere, somewhere far from their unwanted attentions, somewhere it can just be the two of them and he can treat Jaws right.

Jaws must not have that same urge, because he laughs again and just encourages what’s scrolling down the side of his screen. “What, you want me to take these off?” He stands up and turns around, and Reiner swallows; Jaws had mostly been facing him during his lap dance, and that had been a grave oversight, because he is packing a tight, toned ass with a delicious curve to it, even hidden under the same black briefs he’d been wearing earlier. When Jaws rolls down the top of his briefs, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of ass crack, Reiner is mesmerized; he’s always been an ass man, and he finds himself silently rooting for Jaws to drop those briefs just a little more, a little further…

Which he doesn’t. Jaws pulls them back up, to what Reiner is sure must be a collective groan from everyone watching, and sits back down. “Let’s see, I think I’ll need, mmmmm… one hundred and fifty dollars to take those off.” He looks pointedly down into the corner of the screen, and Reiner follows his gaze, noticing a running tally of how much people are donating to the show. It’s currently sitting at around fifty five dollars, but it’s climbing, as the other men watching start pitching in.

Reiner taps his fingers along the outside of his thigh, considering, before he adds his own contribution to the pot: twenty five dollars, something that once sounded like a great sum to him but now barely registers. He watches as Jaws’ eyebrows shoot up, and Jaws grins at the camera.

“You’re thirsty tonight, huh, titan?” he asks, and Reiner gulps as Jaws runs one hand down his chest, slowly tracing one pectoral muscle before running down his abs and then playing with the hem of his shorts. He pushes the hem down about a half inch, and that line of rusty hair glints in the light of wherever he’s filming, and Reiner knows that he’s a lost man.

The next couple of hours pass in a blur; Reiner is aware that he’s losing money, positively obscene amounts of money for what he’s getting, but he doesn’t care. He just keeps clicking, keeps contributing to Jaws’ running total, and when the rewards are as good as they are, he doesn’t even feel the sting of those dollars flying out of his bank account. It turns out that Jaws has an entire briefcase of sex toys, laid out on black velvet like a traveling salesman’s, and he’ll do all sorts of things with those toys for the right amount of money. Reiner loses track of how many times he jerks off; enough times to leave a crumpled army of tissues scattered on his sheets around him, enough times to leave a dull ache pulsing at the base of his cock; enough times to have nothing left to wipe up. It’s like he’s making up for all the months where he hadn’t the slightest interest in his cock, and getting it all out of the way at once. He only had a couple of drinks at the club, and that hours ago, but Reiner feels drunk.

Finally, Jaws—naked, sweating, and still bearing the marks on his chest of a pair of nipple clamps—brushes back the hair that escaped from its moorings and grins tiredly at the camera. “That’s about all I’ve got time for tonight, everyone. You’ve been great,” and they have, Jaws’ running tally has climbed into the thousands, and Reiner realizes with a start that quite a bit of that came from him, “but I’ve got to leave you wanting more.” A grin, a wink, and Jaws brushes one hand over the top of his toy case again. “And for one lucky guy, I _will_ give you more.”

Reiner sits up straighter. Yes, go on. He’s pretty certain he’s got nothing left in the reserves, but he _will_ soldier on somehow. He’ll cum bone marrow if he has to, but he _is_ here for this.

“Now, long time viewers like iamayam know how this works, but we’ve got some _very_ generous newcomers like titan23 tonight, so let me explain.” Jaws settles himself on his chair, as composed and poised as someone can be while naked and disheveled, his hands folded over one knee, and if Reiner wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t notice how tightly Jaws is holding his leg, or how the skin of his knuckles has bleached white. “I like to end these sessions with a private show. Now this is for one viewer and one viewer only, and he can ask me…” A pause, and Jaws’ eyes flicker towards his toy case, still yawning open. “To do _anything_.”

Reiner realizes then that, while Jaws has teased and sucked on various things and touched himself tonight, he hasn’t put anything _in_ himself, and Reiner’s cock is suddenly very, very interested. The spirit is willing, and so is the flesh.

“I’m going to start a bidding war, and it’ll go on for two minutes.” Jaws leans forward and types something, and a timer set for two minutes appears at the bottom of the screen. “Winner takes all.” Another wink, and the timer suddenly starts scrolling down as Jaws sits back and puts his hands behind his head. “Good luck, y’all.”

That single word, that faint Southern drawl creeping into Jaws’ voice, is enough to distract and charm Reiner for a solid fifteen seconds, and in that time, the bidding war climbs to over sixty dollars. iamayam is leading, and Reiner only has to think about it for a few seconds before adding his own bid in, raising the amount to seventy five dollars. A few seconds later, iamayam tops him, and the race is on.

Reiner is not normally a gambling man, but before too much more time passes, he and iamayam are neck in neck, trying to outbid each other by a few dollars at a time, and not letting the other one get too far ahead. Reiner can feel a trickle of sweat run down his temple as he keeps raising his bid by five dollars at a time; the other men in the chat have dropped out, and are watching in stunned silence. Even Jaws is quiet, watching with raised eyebrows as the numbers scroll higher.

It’s stupid; Reiner knows it’s stupid. This is the epitome of a waste of money, and he can hear his mother’s voice, faint in the back of his mind, asking where all his money has gone, and how is he supposed to make anything of himself when he’s so careless with his spending? Still he bids higher, gritting his teeth together unconsciously as iamayam refuses to drop out.

With thirty seconds to go, the other men in the chat start chiming in, rooting for one or the other of them, and Reiner is vaguely aware that most of them are cheering him on; they don’t want to see iamayam win either. Jaws just watches, cool and impassive, but when Reiner glances at his face on the screen, he wants to believe Jaws is rooting for him too, that Jaws wants him to win and not this other guy. What kind of name is that anyway, iamayam?

When the clock hits ten seconds left, Reiner is in the lead, and suddenly iamayam goes quiet. Reiner barely even glances at the amount he’s committed to this—fifteen hundred dollars, once a princely sum and now something he can easily brush off—his fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to slam in another bid just in case. Iamayam does nothing, though, and Reiner lets himself glance at the toy chest behind Jaws’ shoulder, still hanging open, and his gaze lingers just a second too long on a thick, teal blue dildo, ridged at the base and with a lovingly crafted head.

He turns his eyes back to the clock just in time to see it click down to one, and for iamayam’s bid to increase by five dollars. Reiner slams his hand down, trying frantically to top him, but it’s too late; the clock hits zero before his bid registers, and it’s over.

“SHIT!” Reiner slams both hands down on the mattress, making his computer joggle across his thighs, then slaps his palms to his face. So close, so fucking close… and why did this matter so much to him? Why is he suddenly so ready to throw money around on this particular stripper/cam boy? Why does Jaws suddenly _matter_ so much to him?

As if summoned by Reiner’s thoughts, there’s low, bemused chuckling coming from the speakers of the computer, and then the sound of a single man clapping. “That was the best thing I’ve seen in ages,” Jaws says, and Reiner drops one hand to see his face. Jaws is smiling, but it looks tight, like he didn’t want iamayam to win, and he drops another wink at the screen. “Looks like I’ve got a date, guys, but thanks, iamayam and titan23, for all your interest in a private show. I’ll have to do another one of these soon. Goodnight, all, and remember… when you watch Jaws, you’re going to need a bigger load.”

A flicker of the screen, and he’s gone.

Some of the other men in the chat are messaging Reiner, being surprisingly consoling about the whole thing, but Reiner isn’t having it. He viciously closes the laptop and tosses it aside, where it bounces harmlessly off one of his pillows and settles on the bed. Reiner scrubs his hands down his face; what’s _wrong_ with him? How did Jaws manage to get under his skin like this?

“It’s been too long,” he mutters, and drags himself under the covers, reaching up to switch off the bedroom light. “It’s just been awhile, that’s all. It’s been awhile, and I got excited. That’s it.”

But it’s still a long, long time before Reiner falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT WHO IS IAMAYAM?!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner goes to the gym and gets at least SOME of his thirst quenched.

Reiner wakes up early—as he always does, as he has since elementary school—but for the first time in years, he doesn’t immediately get out of bed. For one thing, he feels achy and feverish, like he’s coming down with something, and his eyes are scratchy and dry, like they’re full of sand.

For a moment, Reiner wonders if he’s coming down with something, and then he remembers last night. With a groan, he rolls over, pulling his blanket up over his head and sending a cascade of used tissues to the floor. Oh god… did he really…

Yeah, he really did.

For the first time since he discovered the gym and early morning workouts, Reiner decides that physical fitness can wait, and goes back to sleep.

~*~

It’s the sun coming through his curtains that wakes him, and even that takes awhile to really sink in. Reiner cracks an eye open and then immediately closes it against the assault of light streaming through his shades; he never sleeps this late, has never been in his bed when the sun is this high in the sky, and maybe he really is sick and should just stay in bed, who knows what kind of weird stuff he could have caught from the strip club…

With a grunt, Reiner flings his blankets off himself and sits up. He’s not sick, he’s just being a baby, a whiny little overly emotional _baby_ , and he needs to be a _man_. He needs to face what happened and just deal with it and go on with his life. It’s not even like he did anything illegal or particularly distasteful; everything was one hundred percent on the up and up and no one at the firm could argue any different. It might not have been his proudest night ever, but at least it was all on the right side of the law.

A workout. That’s what he needs. He needs to go to the gym and lose himself on the machines, really sweat it all out and not come home until he’s drenched and trembly with exhaustion. Then he can order takeout, zone out in front of the tv, and get some good, honest sleep tonight. That’ll fix what’s been bothering him. That’ll wash Jaws right out of his mind.

Because that’s what he needs. He just needs to forget, and then everything will go back to normal.

With that in mind, Reiner gets dressed in his gym gear, eats a banana—and never mind how putting something that shape in his mouth raises other things to the forefront of his mind—and then he’s out the door.

~*~

The gym is super crowded, much to Reiner’s dismay. He’s used to arriving just as it opens, before dawn during the winter months and just as the sun is rising during the summer, and he’s never seen it this busy. He drops his stuff off in his locker, does some quick stretching, and heads to the weights. He has a few people looking at him as he does, and he hears someone ask a friend who the new guy is, but he ignores it; he’s long past the age of trying to pick up anyone at the gym, and all he wants today is a work out.

There’s a bit of a line up for some of the machines, and Reiner sighs. Free weights it is today, then. He turns, heading towards the free weight benches, and freezes where he stands.

A group of personal trainers, identifiable by their black shirts with the gym name across the shoulders, are clustered around one of the benches. Two of them are guys Reiner has seen around before, and is fairly friendly with, but it’s the third one who makes his legs turn to ice and his breath hitch in his chest. He’s shorter than the other two, standing with his back to Reiner, his legs spread wide and both his hands occupied with gesturing wildly, fiercely. Reiner can’t hear his voice over the throbbing music the gym plays over the loudspeakers, but he sees the reddish-blond hair, short on the sides with the top slicked back, and he knows that when the trainer turns around, he’ll have sharp hazel eyes and a quick, shit-eating grin.

_Jaws._

Reiner isn’t even aware that he’s moving again, that he’s walking forward, until he’s right up behind the trainer. He hears a snatch of their conversation—“Can you believe this shit, who just _leaves_ a weight bench looking like this? Fucking animals, all of them!”—before he reaches up and taps the shorter trainer on the shoulder. He thinks, just for a second, as the man turns around that it won’t be Jaws, it’ll be someone else, because what are the odds, how would he find Jaws for a third time, and this time in the real world, where he can actually talk to him without a screen between them? Reiner Braun has never been that lucky.

But then the trainer turns around, and it _is_ Jaws, his eyes widening as he takes in Reiner and recognizes him, and Reiner tries to smile but can’t, not when he sees that sudden flash of fear skate across the surface of Jaws’ eyes, there and then gone.

He opens his mouth, unsure what he’s going to say, and Jaws doesn’t help; he’s just as frozen as Reiner, staring at him with an unreadable expression, his fave vacillating between fear and outrage, unable to settle on either one. They might have stood there forever, just staring at each other like a pair of wary cats, had one of the other trainers not stepped forward.

He’s a taller guy, with buzzed dark hair—Franz, if Reiner remembers his name correctly—and he steps up next to them. “You guys okay? You look like you need to be rebooted.”

A computer science graduate student, Reiner’s brain helpfully supplies. Franz is a computer science grad student, and that’s why he made that reference. As for anything actually useful, his mind remains silent.

“Uh…” Jaws glances from Reiner to Franz and then back again, his eyes like an animal’s caught in a trap, and when he looks at Reiner, there’s something pleading in his gaze, a temporary moment of weakness that jogs something in Reiner’s chest.

Reiner mentally slaps himself, and looks down. Jaws’ shirt has TRAINER stamped across the left side of the chest, and Reiner forces his face into a big smile and turns to Franz.

“I’ve been looking to up my game.” Reiner can hear himself, so bluff and cheerful, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees a split second of relief on Jaws’ face, there and then gone. “So I thought I’d see what the professionals have to say.”

“You want a trainer?” Franz sounds skeptical as he looks Reiner up and down. “No offense, man, but you look like whatever you’re already doing is working.”

“ _Shut up, Franz._ ” Jaws has found his voice, and it comes out in a hiss. “If the man wants a training session, let him get a session!” Jaws reaches out and clamps one hand down on Reiner’s arm, his grip just this side of painful, and starts trying to steer him away. Reiner doesn’t catch on for just a fraction too long and nearly stumbles when they start moving, but Jaws either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and very quickly hustles him away from the other trainers, pointing them towards the locker rooms.

Reiner lets himself be guided, admitting to himself that part of the reason is because it means Jaws has his hands on him, gripping his bicep and sometimes on the small of his back, and it feels good. It feels really good, even if Jaws is silent and foreboding next to him. Jaws shoves him into the locker room, steering him towards a secluded corner, and Reiner goes along without protest. It’s not until Jaws slams him up against the lockers, hands fisted in his t-shirt, that Reiner starts to wake up a little.

“What _the fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” Jaws hisses, his face just inches away from Reiner’s. “The _fuck_ are you doing, coming here? Are you stalking me, you piece of shit?”

“What?” Reiner blinks, shocked at the accusation. “Stalking you? No! I…”

He kind of _is_ stalking Jaws, with how he Googled him last night and found his cam show, but the gym thing is just a coincidence.

“I’ve been going to this gym for years,” he manages. “You can check the membership logs.”

“Don’t think I won’t!” Jaws snaps, but he lets Reiner go, and takes a step back. He lifts one hand and runs it over his hair, smoothing it back with a fierce swipe, but that one stubborn tuft in the front springs free. “The fuck are you here _now_?”

“I overslept. I’m usually here earlier.” Which explains why they’ve never run into each other, and Reiner looks at Jaws curiously. “How long have you worked here?”

Maybe early morning workouts aren’t where it’s at, if guys like Jaws are around during the day.

“What business is it of yours?” Jaws glares, then sighs in disgust. “Six months. And it’s a good job, I like it here, so you can’t tell _anyone_!”

“That you like it here?”

“ _No_ , dipshit! About my…” Jaws looks around them and drops his voice. “My _other_ job.”

“Why would I do that?” Reiner is genuinely baffled, but it’s apparently the right answer. Jaws nods, and his demeanor thaws out a little.

“Yeah, that’s right. Good answer.” Jaws looks Reiner up and down, appraising him, then rolls his eyes. “ _Fuck_. Come on. We have to go back out there.”

“Why?”

“Because you told Franz you had a session with me, asshole! He’s going to expect to see me working with you!” Jaws starts striding away, his steps long and determined, and Reiner hurries to keep up. “I’m going to have to waste my whole morning dealing with _you_ now, someone who isn’t even an actual appointment, shit! Just my goddamn luck.”

“I’ll pay for your time.” That is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the look Jaws shoots him is positively murderous.

“I don’t need your _charity_.” The words are so laced with venom that Reiner stops in his tracks, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “We’ll do a session, then you’ll fuck off back to wherever you came from, and _not_ come back to the gym while I’m here!”

“I’m not… I’m not here to make problems for you.”

There must be something in Reiner’s tone that registers, because Jaws’ expression softens a little bit, some of the tension releasing from his jaw. “Yeah, well, you _have_.” He glares at Reiner a moment more and then grunts, swiping at his hair again and still missing that piece in the front. “So what’s the routine you have now?”

As it turns out, there isn’t much for Jaws to say about Reiner’s upper body routine. He simply observes, nodding occasionally, and helps spot him. Which is nice, actually; Reiner is usually at the gym so early that there isn’t anyone else around, and with someone standing above him, hands poised under the weight bar, he’s able to lift more than usual. He’s also in a prime position to look up at Jaws and watch him as he concentrates on Reiner’s form, his brows drawn down and his eyes analytical. From this angle, Reiner notices the glitter of something silver around Jaws’ neck, but it’s tucked into his shirt and he doesn’t know what’s on the other end. 

Far more interestingly, Reiner’s head ends up below Jaws’ crotch when he’s being spotted on the bench press, and Reiner would be lying if he said he didn’t do the bench press more slowly than normal, just to have Jaws’ crotch near his head a little longer. When he finishes his last rep, the bar clanging into place, Reiner notices a change in Jaws’ expression, a faint shift like he’s noticed something, but when Jaws catches him watching, he scowls and looks away.

It’s only when they move to legs that Jaws starts taking a more active role in the workout, and he does so reluctantly, almost like he doesn’t want to care but can’t help himself. “You’re going to blow out your knees doing squats like that.”

Reiner looks up, surprised. “I’ve been doing them this way since high school.”

Jaws barks sharp laughter. “You’re not in high school anymore.”

He crouches between Reiner’s knees and takes hold of his ankles, adjusting him into a wider stance, shuffling one foot forward a little, and Reiner tries to ignore what a prime position they’re in. He almost succeeds, and hopes that Jaws thinks the flush on his face is just from workout exertion.

Jaws stays crouched down and looks up, his hands still on Reiner’s ankles. “Okay, try it now.”

Reiner does, and damn if Jaws isn’t right; the squat is easier and he doesn’t feel that warning tension in his knees as he goes down. His eyes widen in surprise, and Jaws is smirking as he straightens up.

“Told you.” He moves behind Reiner then, in the spotting position, and Reiner wonders if Jaws is looking at his ass while he finishes his set. Probably not.

By the time the workout is down, Reiner is wrung out with sweat, exhausted and pleasantly achy, just the way he’d wanted to be. If nothing else, Jaws is one hell of a personal trainer, and Reiner wonders what the protocol would be on requesting more sessions with him.

“So you’re doing fine on your upper body stuff, no need to change anything there, but do that position change I showed you for squats or you’re going to be looking at a really expensive surgery a few years down the line…” Jaws is rattling off his recommendations as they head back to the locker room, and he sounds, if not friendly, then less actively aggressive than before. “I’ll write all this down and put it in your file at the front desk so you can consult it later.”

“Thank you.” Reiner is genuinely grateful, but he also can’t help but remember last night, and the cocky, teasing way Jaws had smiled at the camera, or how he’d touched him in the club, and he doesn’t just want a personal trainer out of this. He can admit it now, after spending a couple hours working out with the man: he’s got a crush. He’s got a horrible, stupid crush on Jaws, who must have a normal name that Reiner still doesn’t know.

Jaws waves off his thanks. “It’s the job.” He seems to realize what he’s said, and grimaces. “That’s _all_ it is. Just the job.”

Reiner nods, although he can’t help feeling a little chagrined. “Right, of course.” He’s going to make sure he pays for this personal training session too, no matter what Jaws says; it’s not charity, no matter what Jaws says, and Reiner’s mom didn’t raise any freeloaders.

Jaws is still looking at Reiner, his brow drawn down, his lips pursed in an unfairly kissable way, and Reiner is almost going to ask what’s wrong when Jaws speaks up. “You probably have access to the private saunas, right?”

Reiner blinks, surprised by the question, then nods. “Yes.” It’s an extra few bucks on his monthly membership, but on the rare occasion when he wants to enjoy a sauna, he doesn’t want to share it with a bunch of hairy old men. Suffering from a grand-daddy kink is _not_ one of his afflictions.

Jaws looks conflicted for just a moment more, but then his hand snakes out and grabs the hem of Reiner’s shorts, reeling him in. Reiner stumbles forward, shocked at the forwardness, but Jaws isn’t stupid; they’re standing in a corner, away from the main hustle and bustle of the gym, and no one is watching them. 

Up close, he’s a solid six inches taller than Jaws, and Jaws has to tilt his head back to see Reiner’s face. This does nothing to decrease his kissability, and Reiner has to bite his lower lip to keep himself from leaning in and just going for it.

“Let’s go take one, then.” Jaws glances around furtively, then lets go of Reiner’s shorts, flicking his abs with the back of his fingers as he does. “If you’re a creepy shit in the showers, I’m going to deck you.”

“I won’t be a creepy shit.”

“You better not.”

~*~

Reiner is on his best possible behavior in the showers, looking straight ahead and thinking the unsexiest thoughts he possibly can. It’s a challenge, especially knowing Jaws is rinsing off right next to him, but he keeps himself decent and decidedly non-creepy until he’s rinsed off, his hair wet and standing up in spikes, a fluffy white gym towel wrapped around his waist. Jaws emerges a moment later, his pale skin flushed a very tantalizing pink from the heat of the shower, his hair wet but still slicked back, also wearing a towel, and Reiner notices that the silver around his neck is a pair of military dog tags.

He nods at them. “Did you serve?”

Jaws’ eyes narrow at him, and he doesn’t answer, instead brushing past Reiner and heading towards the saunas. Reiner follows, knowing that he did something wrong but not sure what. Is Jaws’ ashamed of his service? If he is, why would he still wear the tags?

Jaws chooses the furthest of the private saunas, the one right up against the wall, and waits there, bouncing from foot to foot, for Reiner to arrive and punch in his key code. Once that’s done and the sauna door unlocks, Jaws dives right in, and Reiner follows, a little amused at his enthusiasm. 

Jaws is leaning over the hot coals as Reiner enters, and he fiddles with the heat settings until the coals are burning bright. Then he carefully pours water over them, sending a billow of steam into the room. Reiner settles on one of the benches, already feeling fresh sweat prickle at his pores, and watches the curved line of Jaws’ back as he makes sure the coals are perfect before straightening up and sitting on the opposite bench himself with a quiet sigh.

Reiner is a little unclear on what to expect here, but Jaws seems to be in no hurry; he lets his head loll back, exposing the lines of his throat, and stretches his legs out in front of him. They’re good legs too, strong and more defined than Reiner’s, and Reiner thinks he’ll have to take Jaws’ advice into consideration on leg day from now on.

They sit in silence for about twenty minutes, enjoying the heat and the slow relaxation that comes with it, and Reiner is almost dozing, his muscles relaxed into veritable jelly, when Jaws speaks up.

“You’ve been looking at me like I’m a piece of meat all day.” His voice is lazy, that faint Southern lilt sneaking back into it, and Reiner lifts his head to look at him.

“I have not!” He’s been _trying_ not to, at least. Reiner doesn’t think he’s a particularly good person, but he at least tries to be a gentleman. People will assume all sorts of good things about you if you have the manners of a gentleman.

Jaws waves a lazy hand at him, his own head still back, his unfocused gaze on the beams of cedar wood above them. “You’ve been trying not to, but you have been. I know the look.”

Reiner flushes, called out, and looks away. “I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t fishing for an apology.”

Interesting. “What do you want, then?”

Jaws lifts his head, and meets Reiner’s eyes. There’s a challenge in his gaze, and Reiner pales beneath it, feeling—knowing—that he’s been tested and found wanting. Jaws holds the look just long enough to begin to get uncomfortable, then reaches down and flicks his towel off his lap, exposing himself. “You want it, come and get it.”

Reiner is so stunned that he doesn’t know what to do at first. A small voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounds an awful lot like Bertolt’s, tells him that Jaws shouldn’t be doing this, that if Reiner breathes a word of what just happened Jaws will lose his job, and be lucky to not face sexual harassment charges; a louder, much more strident voice, the one that brays like an alarm bell, is practically jumping up and down: there it is! That’s Jaws’ cock, the one he saw on the cam show last night! It’s right there, begging—no, _demanding_!—to be sucked! Get the fuck down on your knees and get to work!

Reiner listens to the louder voice. After only a second’s hesitation and shock, he scrambles down onto the floor of the sauna, crawling over to Jaws and positioning himself between his spread thighs. He looks up, and Jaws is looking down at him with that smirk on his face, the same expression he’d made when he’d known how badly he was affecting Reiner at the club, and Reiner swears his heart skips a beat.

Jaws reaches down and catches Reiner’s chin in one hand, grasping it roughly, the pads of his fingers rasping over Reiner’s beard. He runs his thumb over Reiner’s lower lip, and Reiner purses his lips to brush a glancing kiss off his thumb. “You’ve got a great mouth. Looks like it’ll be real good for cock sucking.”

Reiner nods; he’s had no complaints about his form.

Jaws holds his jaw a moment longer, then lets go, moving both arms back and hooking his elbows over the back of the bench. “Well? What’re you waiting for?”

What, indeed, and Reiner turns to the task at hand. The cock before him is of average length, but thick and heavy through the middle, just like Jaws himself, and Reiner cups one hand behind it, propping it up. He rests his other hand on Jaws’ thigh to keep his balance, and leans in for a long, slow lick. Jaws tastes of sweat and soap and musk, and it’s the finest perfume Reiner has smelled in a long time.

The Bertolt voice pipes up again, telling Reiner that he doesn’t know Jaws from anyone and that he should be using a condom, but Reiner ignores it. Bertolt lost the right to decree anything about Reiner’s sex life when he realized he was straight, and there’s no way in hell he’s stopping this now to get up and run to his locker for a condom. Jaws wouldn’t be suggesting this if he wasn’t clean, right? Of course he wouldn’t be!

Faulty logic and reasoning done, Reiner tongues at the head of Jaws’ cock, lapping at the slit and tasting the pre-cum there, and Jaws moans quietly, putting his hand on the back of Reiner’s head and fisting his hair. 

Reiner teases him for a moment longer before forming a ring shape with his lips and taking the head of Jaws’ cock into his mouth. The slide down his shaft is slow and teasing, so slow that Jaws loses patience and shoves Reiner’s head the rest of the way down.

“We don’t have all day!”

He’s right, they don’t; the private saunas can be very popular, and if they’re in here for too long, someone is going to come knocking on their door. Reiner inhales through his nose, breathing in the scent of Jaws’ rusty thatch of pubic hair, and then swallows, the muscles of his throat working around the head of Jaws’ cock.

“ _Fuck_ …” The muscles in Jaws’ thigh jump under Reiner’s hand, and Reiner knows he’s doing a good job. “Do that again.”

Reiner does, and Jaws’ hips twitch forward, shoving his cock hard against the back of Reiner’s throat. Reiner almost gags, out of practice at this, but then he swallows again and gets control over himself.

“Fucking tease.” Jaws makes a sound that’s almost a growl, and leans forward, grabbing Reiner’s head with both hands. He takes charge of the blowjob, holding Reiner in place and thrusting his hips forward, sending his cock deep into the back of Reiner’s throat. Reiner holds still and keeps his mouth wide and inviting, welcoming the face-fucking, only moving to grip the edge of bench with both hands to keep his balance. Jaws pounds at the back of his throat, bringing tears to his eyes, but Reiner keeps them screwed shut, refusing to let them fall.

He doesn’t cry. A man doesn’t cry.

After a few minutes of rough face-fucking—long enough for Jaws’ taste to fill his mouth, for his scent to fill Reiner’s nose—Jaws grunts, his cock twitching in Reiner’s mouth, and he starts to move his lips into a circular shape, ready for the grand finale. 

It’s all in vain; Jaws pulls his cock out of his mouth, and Reiner’s eyes flutter open in shock. His vision focuses just in time to see Jaws erupt, his cum spraying across Reiner’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose in sticky white ropes. Reiner is shocked to silence; no one has done that to him since high school, and he stares up at Jaws as his cum drips down his face.

Jaws has his head down, his chin touching his chest, panting as he rides out the last little aftershocks of his orgasm. Once he has control over himself, he lifts his head and looks up, and when he sees the mess he’s made of Reiner’s face, he grins.

“That’s a good look on you.” He picks up one of the hand towels he’d been using to wipe his face, and starts dabbing the cum off Reiner’s cheeks and nose. He pauses at the bridge of Reiner’s nose, where it abruptly bends at almost a ninety degree angle, and tilts his head. “How the hell did you do this?”

Reiner shrugs, taking the towel from him and using it to clean off the last of the cum himself. “It happened in high school.” It’s what he always tells people when they ask, and they always assume the same thing.

Jaws nods and stands up, wrapping his towel over his rapidly deflating cock. “All right, bye.”

“Wait, what?” The sudden departure catches Reiner by surprise, and he starts to stand up as Jaws goes to open the door. “That’s it?”

Jaws looks over his shoulder at him, his eyes cold and hard again. “What did you expect?”

Reiner doesn’t have an answer to that question; he knows what he _wants_ , but he also knows the odds of that happening are slim. Jaws has made it very clear that he’s not interested in knowing Reiner outside a very narrow set of circumstances, and Reiner has no idea how, or even if it’s possible, to go about changing that. 

As he stands floundering for words, Jaws opens the sauna door, letting the steam billow out, and starts to step down.

“Wait!” 

Jaws stops, one foot on the step down out of the sauna, the other one behind him, caught mid-step in his retreat. “ _What_?”

“What’s your name? Your _real_ name?”

Jaws’ head snaps back, and he glowers at Reiner. “What the fuck do you need that for?”

It comes to Reiner in a stroke of brilliance. “To fill out the form at the front desk. So you get credit for your appointment.”

That gives Jaws pause, but Reiner still thinks he’s going to walk away. Instead, he sighs, blowing the air out through his nose like a bull, and begrudgingly gives his name.

“Galliard.”

“Galliard?”

“Yeah.” And then he’s gone, letting the door swing shut behind him, and Reiner is left with a worthless erection and the taste of Jaws—of Galliard—lingering in the back of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a Galliard (thank god Reiner knows his name now and doesn't have to think of him as Jaws anymore) POV one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard wakes up and goes about his morning routine.

The alarm shrills to life, blasting its klaxon call through the dark, silent apartment, and Galliard jolts awake. He slams his hand down on his alarm clock, temporarily stilling its insistent blare, and then waits, poised and tense on his futon.

A few taunt seconds pass, and then he hears shuffling from the floor beside him, followed by a heavy sigh, and he relaxes. Galliard drops his hand over the side of the futon and finds the rough, wiry fur he knows is down there, and gently strokes it. More shuffling, and then the slow, steady beat of a tail wagging and hitting against the futon legs.

“Good boy,” he mutters, and closes his eyes to snatch a few more moments of sleep.

The alarm goes off again, and Galliard slaps it off before sitting up with a groan. He fumbles for the lamp, and floods the room with light.

Sarge looks up at him from the floor, his tail still wagging slowly and his ears perked forward. Once, he’d been a yellow lab, but now he’s mostly grizzled and gray, his fur gone wiry and stiff, and missing in patches, his eyes clouded by cataracts. But his nose still works as well as ever, and he twitches it, snuffling as he turns his head to sniff Galliard’s ankle and then lick it.

“Hey, buddy.” Galliard leans over and pets the dog for another moment, but he doesn’t have time to give Sarge the love he deserves. He hauls himself to his feet, wincing a little as his ass twinges. He’ll have to wash his toys today, if he’s going to cam again tonight. He could take a night off, if he wanted to; iamayam and titan23 got into another bidding war last night, and even with the thirty percent cut the cam website takes, he’s making much better money than normal. But there are always more bills, more things demanding his attention, and it would be nice to have some kind of nest egg put away.

Galliard’s first stop of the day is the refrigerator, where he takes out a cube of bright yellow cheese. From the living room, he can hear Sarge’s tail pick up its beat; the dog knows what’s coming. Galliard unscrews a bottle of baby aspirin on the counter and tucks two into the cheese. Then it’s back to the futon, where he crouches near Sarge’s head and offers him the cheese. The dog slurps it up, swallowing his treat whole, and then licks the palm of Galliard’s hand with a slobbery pink tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re my buddy too.” Galliard pets him again, then rises to his feet and pads to the bathroom.

The shower creaks and groans, but he’s up early enough that the building still has some hot water, and Galliard stands under the spray, letting it cascade around him. It beats at his chest and shoulders, and he holds his breath before ducking his face down and letting it wash over his head and down his back. It’s the only time of the day where he’ll be alone, and he lets his thoughts wander as the heat slowly unkinks his muscles and relaxes his aches and pain.

His thought turn, as they frequently have lately, to the big blond fuck, his stalker from the club. Reiner Braun. A very Germanic name, one he’d looked up at the gym; it had taken some serious flirting to get Hannah to let him see the membership records, but then Franz had come over and distracted her, and Galliard had taken his shot.

Reiner Braun: twenty nine years old but looks and acts a lot older; been a member at the gym for three years; has his membership dues on automatic payment; lives in the fancy part of downtown, where all the rich people live. Nothing really surprising, except for his age, and Galliard had closed the program in a hurry, afraid that Hannah would eventually get tired of flirting and come back to chase him away. He’s already taken enough risks regarding Reiner Braun; he doesn’t need to make it worse.

The blowjob in the sauna had been stupid. Galliard knows this, and can admit it to himself. It had been fucking _stupid_ , stupid and dangerous, and he could have gotten himself fired from his one _real_ job over it. It was the stupid stunt of a self-destructive kid, and Galliard isn’t that kid anymore. He’s better than that. He _has_ to be better than that.

Thank god Braun was into it.

He hadn’t given a bad blowjob either.

Galliard shakes his head, sending water droplets flying everywhere, and grabs his bottle of shampoo. Now isn’t the time to start remembering the warmth of Reiner Braun’s mouth, or how willing he’d been to crawl across the floor and position himself between Galliard’s legs. It had been a one-time thing. It happened, it’s over, it’s never happening again.

Rich pricks like Braun don’t slum with people with Galliard. 

Not unless they want something, and Galliard isn’t going to whore himself out to whatever it is Reiner Braun is sniffing after.

The hot water starts to die away, and Galliard rinses off the rest of the way and turns off the shower before it can blast him with frigid water. He towels himself dry, frowning at the bruises peppering his chest. He needs to be more careful with the clamps; they’re always a big hit with the perverts, but if anyone at the gym saw these, it’d lead to questions Galliard doesn’t want to answer. 

He wishes he didn’t bruise so easily.

Galliard throws on his threadbare robe and pads back into the living room area. Sarge watches from his position on the dog bed as Galliard gets dressed—khaki pants today, long-sleeved undershirt and then his black polo over the top, green apron and visor stuffed into his backpack to put on when he’s at work. Once he’s dressed, Galliard shrugs into his worn leather jacket that’s too big in the shoulders, originally purchased for someone bigger and heavier than himself, and squats next to Sarge’s dog bed. He reaches on top of the cardboard box that serves as an end table and takes down Sarge’s leash.

“You ready to go pee? You ready?”

Sarge hauls himself onto his front legs, and then sits there for a moment, panting. Galliard watches him, his jaw clenching, his brow drawn down. Sometimes Sarge has weakness in his back half, and can’t get up on his own. Those days used to be few and far between, but they’ve been coming more and more often; the last few times it’s happened, Galliard had had to hoist Sarge’s back half up himself, and then hold him up when they went outside so the dog could relieve himself.

It takes the dog a few moments, but he stands up under his own power today, and Galliard relaxes. Giving him his aspirin first is helping. That’s what he’ll have to keep doing: give the dog his medicine and then give it time to work. If the aspirin is working, Sarge can still stand up and move around on his own.

It’ll be fine.

“Okay, let’s go.” Galliard clips the leash to Sarge’s collar, and the dog pads heavily beside him as they leave the apartment and go out to the elevator. Galliard has to pay more for an apartment with an elevator, but he can’t expect Sarge to walk up and down stairs everyday, and pee pads inside the house are both disgusting and too expensive.

Sarge moves slowly and ponderously down the street, sniffing at all the trees along the way with interest, and Galliard trails after him, letting the dog do his thing. He tries very hard not to notice how Sarge can’t lift his leg to pee anymore and instead crouches like a girl dog, or how he dribbles urine even after he’s done doing his business. He’ll google this when he gets home; maybe Sarge just needs more aspirin, or something else with his daily cheese.

This early in the morning, when the sky is still a ghostly gray and the street lamps haven’t turned off yet, the street is mostly deserted. But it’s never completely silent in Trost, and Galliard scowls at a jogger who runs past them, moving to put himself between Sarge and the stranger. The person probably wouldn’t hurt his dog— _probably_ —but Sarge is old and unsteady on his feet, and Galliard would kill anyone who knocked him over. Sarge doesn’t even notice, too intent on sniffing an interesting pile of trash.

“Don’t let him eat that, there might be bones in there.”

Galliard turns around, just in time to hear the quiet roar of a city bus and have the heat from its passing wash over him. His eyes are narrowed and he has his shoulders squared up, ready for whatever’s coming, but relaxes when he sees who it is.

“It’s a fast-food wrapper. That shit doesn’t come from real animals, it won’t have bones.”

Pieck laughs softly, making her slow way towards them, her forearm crutches making soft sounds of impact on the sidewalk. Sarge lifts his head and wags his tail, recognizing one of his friends, and walks towards her. Galliard gives his leash a gentle tug. “Don’t knock her over, buddy.”

“He won’t knock me over, it’s okay.” Once she’s close enough, Pieck stoops a little and pets Sarge’s broad head. “Hey, good boy. Who’s a good boy? Who’s my good Sarge?”

Sarge wags his tail harder, hitting it against Galliard’s legs, and Galliard sighs, stepping aside. “He’s going to get hair all over my work uniform.”

“No one can see your legs at work.”

“Doesn’t mean I want dog hair on them!”

Pieck smiles and shakes her head, giving Sarge one last scratch behind his ears before straightening up. “Do you want me to check in on him during the afternoon?”

Galliard glances away; he does, he has another long day today, but he also doesn’t want to ask. “If you have time…”

“I’ve always got time for this handsome old man.”

Galliard scoffs quietly, relieved, and changes the subject. “You’re up early.”

“Or out late.” She smiles at him from beneath her waves of dark hair, and Galliard suddenly realizes that no, she’s not going somewhere, she’s coming back, and he makes a face.

“Not that guy again!”

Pieck shrugs. “I like him. He treats me right.”

“He’s old and has a pervert beard.”

“Just because you’re mad you can’t grow one is no reason to take it out on Zeke.”

“I could grow a beard!” A very sad, gingery carrot one, which is why he doesn’t, but Pieck doesn’t need to know that. It would also interfere with his job, but Pieck doesn’t know about his _other_ job, and why he needs to stay clean-shaven for it. He’s not big or broad enough to pull off the lumberjack look, and the clean-shaven baby face thing makes him look younger and more desirable, and it hurts Galliard’s heart that he knows all this.

“I’m sure you could.” Sarge has stretched his head up to lick Pieck’s hand, and she pets him again. “So another late night tonight?”

Galliard goes over his schedule in his head. Starbucks this morning, then class, then another couple of hours at the university Starbucks, and then a few hours at the gym, both for his own workout and to try and drum up some clients. “Not too late. I should be home around eight.”

“I’ll come see this guy around noon and six, then.”

“Thanks, Pieck.” Knowing that she’ll be around to check on his dog is a weight off Galliard’s shoulders, and he almost feels bad for hassling her about her boyfriend.

“Of course.” She straightens up, and offers him her arm. “Walk a lady to the building?”

Galliard takes her arm, and they make their way back to the building they share. 

They say goodbye in the elevator, and Galliard takes Sarge back to their apartment. Inside, the dog waits patiently for his breakfast, which he devours noisily while Galliard packs his bag for the day. When the dog is done eating, he plods to a corner of the living area, where his second dog bed is, the one near the radiator, and flops down on it with a heavy sigh.

“You’re a good boy.” Galliard goes over to pet the dog one last time, running his fingers over ears where the fur has worn down on the tips, over a muzzle that’s gone completely grizzled and grey. Sarge licks his fingers, and Galliard smoothes them over the top of his head. Sarge is getting stinky again; Galliard is going to have to find time to give him a bath this weekend.

The dog rolls onto his side, exposing his belly for some scratches, and his back bumps up against the little end-table that sits beside his bed. The items on top of the table chatter together at the impact, and Galliard reaches out to steady it. He doesn’t look at what the table has on it; it’s too early in the morning for that. Maybe he can look at it tonight, maybe even dust it off. It’s probably dusty. 

It’s almost certainly dusty.

“Bye, buddy.” After a few scratches to Sarge’s belly, Galliard rises, satisfied that the dog will be fine until Pieck comes to check on him, and then leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him.

~*~

It’s a long bus ride to Starbucks, and Galliard sits in the back, leaning his head against the window and watching the city slowly wake up around him. He lets his mind drift a little, slowly ticking off a mental list of everything he has to do today: work, his class—Economics, the most hated of all the classes he’s had to take since starting university—work again, and then the gym. And when he starts thinking about the gym, the image of _him_ rises up again, like a dead fish floating to the surface of a lake.

Reiner Braun. Reiner fucking Braun: known strip club patron and possible stalker; rich boy who lives in the fancy part of town; dumbass who doesn’t know how to do squats properly and is going to blow his knees out in a few years, Galliard can practically guarantee it, because guys like him never listen to advice and don’t change their form; guy who probably went to some expensive private school and broke his nose in high school playing soccer or water polo or polo with the damn horses (never football, never anything as gauche and unsophisticated as American football) and then never got it fixed because he probably thinks it ‘adds character’ or some dumb thing; obviously thinks a lot of himself, with the perfectly trimmed beard and tight body and flawless skin, little bitch probably goes to a spa once a week to get _treatments_ , whatever those are; very solid cocksucker, A+ on enthusiasm, B on technique, but maybe that would be better if they weren’t getting their rocks off quick in a sauna, and _why_ is Galliard thinking about this? This is such a waste of time. He made it perfectly clear that Reiner fucking Braun is _not_ to come to the gym in the afternoons anymore, that Galliard doesn’t want to run into him again, and who cares that he was actually the ideal personal training client, quiet and attentive and willing to take directions, or that he was so willing and eager to get on his knees in the sauna? Who cares that he’d saved Galliard’s ass in front of Franz—if he’d just had another minute, he would have thought of something, something _good_ , to throw Franz off the trail, but Reiner. Fucking. BRAUN had beaten him to it—or that he’d looked at Galliard like he was really _seeing_ him for a couple of seconds there? Who cares?! It’s all irrelevant! 

Galliard knows guys like Reiner; he knows what they want, and what they think they can do. He’s a user, just like iamayam and all the other sick fucks in Galliard’s life; he doesn’t see Galliard. 

He sees Jaws.

And Galliard doesn’t want to turn into Jaws. God, he doesn’t want to be Jaws forever.

The bus pulls up to the curb, the light from the Starbucks sign shining green and white, and Galliard stands up. He hefts his backpack onto his shoulder, wipes the condensation from the bus window off his cheek, and makes his way to the bus door. He doesn’t have time to think about this. He needs to forget about Reiner fucking Braun and his sad goddamn eyes and just… he needs to get through this. He needs to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and just brute force his way through all this.

He’ll forget about Reiner, and Reiner will forget about him, given enough time.

They always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we've got Galliard's POV.
> 
> Also, a note! I'm going to be traveling next week and so won't have a lot of writing time. The next chapter is halfway written (it's going to be a split POV one, with the following chapter being back to Reiner's POV), so it might be a little late next week. If it is, don't worry! I haven't lost enthusiasm for the project, I'm just out and about living it up in meatspace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard gets a deadline, and Reiner makes an arrangement.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to Dees for reading it over and giving me some great suggestions for Galliard's boss. <3

“May I see you in my office, Gali dear?”

Galliard lifts his head; he can feel his eyelid wanting to twitch in irritation—firstly at being called _Gali dear_ , and then because no one ever gets called to the gym owner’s office for anything _good_ , only to get bitched out about something—and he forces it wide. He’s run ragged, the last few days a blur of class and work and camming, and it’s only Thursday. He still has a shift at the club tomorrow, and then probably camming afterwards, and everything smells like coffee to him and is blurry around the edges. He can’t remember the last time he had a full night of unbroken sleep, or what it feels like to not have his ass feel sore and chafed.

But Sarge is having more and more trouble standing up, and he needs to go to the vet, and Galliard isn’t going to let his hostage to fortune suffer just because he got stuck with the shitty, loser Galliard brother.

“Of course!” he chirps, trying his best to look peppy and full of good spirits as he follows the owner into her office, even as he can feel his stomach sinking out from underneath him. He’s done something wrong, he knows it. This is just the hammer falling.

The gym owner—an impossibly perky middle aged woman, fake tan throughout the entire year and hair that has to be dyed to be that shade of honey blonde—sits behind her desk, her hands tented in front of her, perfectly manicured nails on display. Galliard takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees, and wishes he didn’t have bags under his eyes that make him look like a damn heroin addict. At least he’s wearing short sleeves today, and she’ll be able to see that his forearms and elbow creases are smooth and unblemished.

Not that means anything, these days. Like Galliard makes enough money to be able to afford a fancy prescription pain pill addiction.

“So, Gali, sweetie…” Michelle—of course her name is Michelle, what else would she possibly be called?—turns to her laptop, a sleek silver MacBook that Franz scoffs at and Galliard drools in envy over, tapping a few keys and squinting at what she calls up, while Galliard clenches his fists on his knees at being called _sweetie_. “How long have you been with us?”

“Six months, miss.” The word _miss_ tastes like ashes in Galliard’s mouth, but he forces himself to say it, knowing she’ll like it better than ma’am. It makes her grin at him, exposing uniformly white and even teeth that practically shine in her slightly orange face, and Galliard tries not to wince.

“And you like working here?”

“Very much, miss.” Not at the moment, but usually, yes. This is a Real Job, one that Galliard can actually put on his resume when he’s done with it, and he needs it. He needs it to keep the gaps in his work experience from getting too wide apart.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Gali, that you can call me Michelle?” Lies. Anyone who calls her Michelle finds themselves out of a job within a month. Gallliard just smiles tightly and nods, and she smiles at him again. "Then why, in six months, have you not secured a single regular client?”

Galliard can feel himself flush at the question, and he hates the way his goddamn cheeks betray him like this. He wishes he had the kind of face that doesn’t show his emotions; he wishes he had the kind of face that could seal itself away into a smooth, inscrutable mask. But he doesn’t, and he glances down at the desktop before answering. “I’ve been trying, miss.”

And he has. He shows up for his shifts and hustles as best he can, but he can’t have a regular schedule like the other trainers, and it’s pretty rare for him to see the same clients on a regular basis. This might be the Real Job, but it doesn’t pay, it doesn’t pay for shit, and Galliard doubts his landlord or Sarge’s vet would accept the fact that he needs _something_ real on his resume in lieu of actual money. 

“Oh, I know, sweetie, you try _so hard_ for our little family here.” Michelle sounds like she cares, with all that bright chirping, but Galliard knows it’s a lie and there’s a sword dangling on a thread above his head. Michelle smiles at him brightly for a moment before she turns back to her computer. A few more taps, an appearance of the faint line in her forehead that is all her Botox allows, and then she looks back at Galliard with an eyebrow raised. “You had a session with a Reiner Braun last weekend, correct?”

Galliard can’t meet her eyes. “Yes.”

“He left you such an excellent review, sweetheart!”

“I know.” Galliard had read it, more than once, with increasing incredulity. Reiner fucking Braun had used phrases like _pleasant, patient,_ and _knowledgable_ on his review of Galliard, although the crowning irony was when he finished and wrote _Galliard is a consummate professional._

Right. A consummate professional who had bullied him into a blowjob in the saunas, something that would have gotten Galliard fired and Reiner kicked out of the gym if they’d been discovered. Reiner could just find a new gym to go to; Galliard would be lucky if the Y would take him on as a trainer after something like that. 

Reiner had also paid for the session, and Galliard had fretted for three days before just accepting the money. He’d gotten paid for the workout, which is what he’s _supposed_ to get paid for. There’s no way Reiner had paid _him_ for the privilege of giving a blowjob. The man might be a complete and total bottom bitch—after more consideration, Galliard is pretty sure that’s what he is, a bottom bitch with a taste for slumming—but he didn’t pay for the blowjob.

It wasn’t prostitution.

“Gali, baby, are you all right?”

Galliard realizes Michelle has been talking to him, and startles to attention. His mind had been wandering again, the way it does when he’s as tired as he is right now, and he can’t let that happen, not in front of the boss. “I’m sorry, miss, can you repeat that?”

Michelle smiles brightly, the kind of smile that looks predatory and doesn’t rise to her eyes at all, and Galliard swallows something caustic that threatened to rise behind his lips. “I’m wondering if you’ve had any further conversations with Mr. Braun.”

Galliard shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“And why not, darling?” Michelle squints at the computer again. “He’s been a member of the club for three years; pays his membership fees on time, never bothers anyone, usually shows up at the crack of dawn, does his workout and then leaves. But,” and here she looks back at Galliard, her eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth, “but _you_ are the first trainer he shows interest in! He buys a session, leaves a frankly stunning review, and you haven’t called him to try and turn him into a regular client?”

Galliard can feel his upper lip wanting to wrinkle back in a snarl, and he fights against the instinct. “I don’t know that there’s much I can teach him, miss.”

“Then make something up.”

“Miss?”

“Oh, there’s always something you can teach someone!” Michelle waves a hand dismissively, as if finding regular clients is the easiest thing in the world and Galliard is just being lazy. “Turn Reiner Braun into a regular client, sweetie, or find someone else to train. Maybe one of those charming ladies who come in after book club? One of them might like you.”

Galliard clenches his jaw, fighting back his temper. Like it’s that easy to hang out around the gym all day and network and convince people to like you for the princely sum of eight dollars an hour, before taxes. “I’ll do my best, miss.”

“I know you will, Gali, you’re just a little tryer, aren’t you?” Michelle beams at him and closes her computer. “How does this sound… you come see me on Monday afternoon with a regular client all signed up, okay? Mr. Braun or someone else, it’s doesn’t matter to me, as long as you find one. All right?”

Galliard swallows again, choking back on all the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He knows a threat when he hears one. “Yes, miss.”

“Good.” Michelle frowns a little. “I think Mr. Braun is one of those gays? Is that the reason you don’t want to work with him?”

For a second, all Galliard can see behind his eyes is incandescent rage, but he stuffs it down with an effort that feels superhuman and shakes his head. “It’s not a problem, miss.”

“Good! No homophobia allowed in our little family! Now, I believe you have a phone call to make, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, miss.” Galliard stands up and stumbles blindly out of the office, not knocking anything over by pure dumb luck. Once he’s out into the safety of the hallway, he blunders into a secluded corner and sinks down onto his ass, both hands covering his face as he gives in to the shakes.

If only he wasn’t so damn tired all the time. If only he could have a regular schedule here and not starve. If only he’d been able to finish his degree in anything even remotely resembling a reasonable time frame. If only he didn’t have to depend on Jaws to get by.

If only everything had been different.

Galliard only allows himself a few minutes to quietly freak out before hauling himself to his feet and heading towards the locker room. Michelle is right: he has a phone call to make, and Galliard realizes dully that for the first time in five years, he’s calling for help.

~*~

“Stop squirming!”

“I’m not squirming, I’m…”

“You’re _squirming_ , and you’re messing up my lines, so stop it!”

Reiner sighs and freezes, holding perfectly still as Ymir leans over his arm, her sharp nose only a few inches from his skin, her Sharpie marker tracking over his deltoid and down onto his bicep.

“Much better, _thank you_.” She sits back and examines her work with a critical eye, then sighs heavily and shakes her head. “Nope, not good enough.” She snatches her little spray bottle off the kitchen tabletop and sprays it all over Reiner’s arm, making him shiver when the cold water hits his skin. “Don’t be such a baby,” she admonishes as she wipes the ink away, leaving her with a slightly smeared but otherwise blank slate again.

“That stuff feels like you’re spraying liquid ice on me.”

“It’s just water and green soap, it won’t hurt you.” Ymir tilts her head, studying his arm, and Reiner taps his fingers on the table. 

“Do you need me to flex again?”

“Not yet, no.” She leans in and starts sketching again, her marker moving quickly and confidently over his skin. “I know it’ll look good when the muscles are flexed, I’m trying to figure out how to make it look good both flexed and slack.”

Reiner nods, accepting that he’s going to be here for awhile, and picks up a pen with his free hand. He holds his captive arm as still as he can while Ymir draws on him, and goes through a file for work with his other hand, occasionally underlining or highlighting a few key words or phrases. He knows he shouldn’t be working on sensitive work documents with Ymir right beside him, but he doubts she’s at all interested in the inner workings of the pharmaceutical industry and patent law.

“You’ve been in a weird mood lately.”

“Hmmm?” Reiner glances up from his work. “What do you mean?”

“Your mood. It’s been weird.” Ymir leans back and examines her work before, apparently satisfied, she starts sketching on his bicep. “You haven’t exactly been a barrel full of laughs since you got dumped…”

“I didn’t get _dumped_ , we broke up!” He got dumped. He got dumped hard and fast and brutally, and Reiner knows he’s still not entirely over it. But then it’s only been eight months, and he and Jean had been together for two years. How fast is he supposed to recover from that?

“All right, fine, since you and J-Tool ‘broke up,’” complete with air quotes, what has Reiner done to deserve this? “you’ve been all mopey and sad and barely smile anymore.”

“Don’t call him J-Tool.” 

Ymir sighs and rolls her eyes. “The point is, you haven’t been yourself.”

“Haven’t you ever broken up with someone?”

“Oh yeah, sure! Lots of times!” Ymir grins. “I could tell you stories of raunchy lesbian sex and next-level dramatics that would make your hair curl.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Figured you would.” Thankfully, she doesn’t launch into any tales of debauchery, and resumes drawing. “So we, which don’t read too much into, _we_ basically means Historia, have been worried about you. You’re just not _you_ , you know? No drinking, no carousing, no sports, no shenanigans, no nothing. Just going to work and coming home and then going to work again.”

Reiner feels so called out right now. “Maybe I’m just getting older and getting past all that.”

“Nah.” Another smooth line drawn in Sharpie on Reiner’s arm, this one almost down to his elbow. “You have a broken heart, and you don’t know how to fix it.”

Reiner opens his mouth to refute that, but then closes it. She’s right, dammit; she is one hundred percent right. Jean had been his first real relationship, his first long-term boyfriend, and Reiner had been dreaming about marriage when Jean had come home one day and issued a flat, blanket decree about the two of them. Reiner shies away from those memories, which still have the power to hurt him. It’s been eight months, but those wounds have just started to scab over, and the slightest motion will break them open anew.

He hadn’t hurt like that since high school, and the day he managed to convince Bertolt to kiss him. It’d been in the closet of Reiner’s bedroom—and god, if that isn’t a horrible metaphor for high school, he doesn’t know what is—and Bert’s lips had been soft and sweet under his, and Reiner’s heart had started pounding like a runaway freight train, his breath quickening in his lungs and his arms reaching out to circle around Bertolt’s shoulders to try and draw him closer.

When he’d felt Bertolt’s shoulders stiffen, Reiner had let him go and broken the kiss, looking up at his best friend, and he’d seen the apologetic, hangdog look in Bertolt’s eyes and he’d known. Bertolt had said he thought he was straight but sure, Reiner was his best friend, he was willing to give it a shot, but while Reiner now had confirmation that he was gay as shit, Bertolt had confirmation that he was equally straight as shit, and that was all there was to it. 

Reiner’s heart had felt crushed then too, but he could console himself with two things: one, that it had nothing to do with _him_ personally, Bertolt just wasn’t into guys, and two, that he hadn’t tried to convince Bertolt otherwise. Bertolt was painfully shy and awkward back then, and Reiner knows he could have pushed and bullied and convinced Bertolt that no, he really _was_ bisexual, he just needed to keep kissing Reiner and the feelings would come, and Bertolt would have gone along with it to keep his only friend happy. He can at least say that he didn’t do that.

There’s no such consolation with Jean. It’s over, very clearly over, and Reiner still has no idea why.

Ymir is quiet beside him, showing some rare restraint as she lets Reiner sort through his feelings, and he turns his head to look down at her. “So what should I do?”

She shrugs. “Hop onto another dick, probably.”

Reiner wrinkles his nose at that suggestion. “It’s not like that.”

“I know it’s not.” Ymir puts her marker down and really looks at him for the first time, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know that if anything happened to me and Historia, I’d be a wreck. I’d be a bigger fucking disaster than I am already. I would go to the ends of the earth for her. You know that, right?”

Reiner nods, surprised by the sudden spate of honesty. 

“But if something _did_ happen to us, I also know that she’d want me to be happy again.” A pause for consideration. “Eventually. After a suitable period of mourning. And J-To— _Jean_ would want the same for you.”

Reiner tears his eyes away from hers, too honest and open by half for him, and examines the dull, corporate art the designer chose for his walls. “Maybe.”

“No maybe, dipshit, he would! I asked him!”

“You… what?”

“I asked him! You think just because you deleted him on Facebook everyone else did too?”

Reiner stares at her, his mouth open in surprise, and she stares back defiantly, her arms still crossed over her chest in a power move. 

The standoff feels like it could last forever—an unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object—but then Reiner’s phone rings in his pocket, and the tension breaks.

Ymir rearranges her face from an expression of defiant concern into a smirk as she gestures at his pocket. “Seriously? Ready Steady Go?”

“Takes a nerd to know a nerd.” Reiner fishes his phone free and glances at it; unknown number, but from Trost, based on the area code. His thumb hovers over the Swipe to Answer prompt.

“What? Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Normally he wouldn’t. If it’s something important, they’ll leave a message; if it’s spam or a solicitor or a wrong number, they won’t. But he also doesn’t really want to have this conversation with Ymir right now, so even a political ad would be better.

He lets a few more bars of the song play, just to annoy her, then stands and swipes right, bringing the phone to his ear. “Reiner Braun speaking.”

Ymir rolls her eyes at his greeting, reaching into her bag beside her chair and getting out her sketchbook.

There’s no answer on the other line, and for a moment, Reiner thinks that he waited too long and the other person hung up. But then he hears the sound of someone breathing, and he steps out of the kitchen, into the living room where he can hear better. “Hello? Are you there?”

More silence, more breathing, and then whoever is on the other line mutters something—it sounds like a quiet, despairing _fuck_ , but Reiner can’t be sure—and he’s almost ready to hang up and give this up as a bad job when sound blasts through the receiver at him, so loud and boisterous that he holds the phone away from his head.

“Hi, Reiner! This is Galliard from the gym! Do you remember me?”

Galliard. _Jaws_. Calling him with a phone number he almost certainly got from the gym records, but that would have required looking for it, and Reiner can feel his heart rate suddenly speed up. He scrambles to bring the phone back to his ear. “Uh… yes. I remember you.”

How could he ever forget?

“Great!” Galliard sounds bright and full of sunshine, almost aggressively so, very unlike himself, that faint trace of a Southern accent completely scrubbed away, every syllable clipped and exaggerated. “I’m just calling to check in after our session last Saturday! How are you feeling!”

So many exclamation points, articulated so harshly that Reiner can hear every single one, and he winces at the onslaught. “I’m good, thanks. I’ve been doing squats the way you showed me.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

This is a script, Reiner suddenly realizes; this is what any trainer would say if he’d done a session with them and they were calling to check in on him later. He can feel his shoulders slouch forward, and Ymir makes a questioning noise from inside the kitchen. He waves her off, and walks deeper into the apartment. “It’s working out really well. I’m not having knee pain anymore.”

“Your knees were bothering you before?” For the first time, Galliard sounds like he’s going off-script, like he’s actually interested in what Reiner’s saying, but Reiner tries to harden his heart to it.

“It’s like you said: I’m not in high school anymore.”

“No, I guess not.” Galliard goes quiet for a moment, almost like he’s thinking, and Reiner waits, the phone held close to his ear. Without realizing it, he’s walked to his largest window, the one that overlooks the city, and he gazes out of it, unseeing, waiting for whatever Galliard has to say.

Galliard sighs, and when he speaks up, he’s doing the bright, fake, glaringly cheerful voice again. “Would you be interested in booking another session? The last one went _very_ well, but there’s still more I could teach you!”

Reiner winces again, and hunches his shoulders further forward, ignoring the twinge of pain at the base of his spine. “I don’t think so.”

Galliard is silent. Reiner waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t, and after an agonizing pause that feels much, much longer than it probably was, Reiner fills in the blanks. “You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want me coming back to the gym while you’re there.”

And he’s not a bad guy, so he’s going to respect that.

Galliard lets out all his breath in a whoosh, and Reiner gets an image in his head, startlingly clear and vivid, of Galliard angrily pushing his hair back off his forehead. “No bullshit now?”

The faint twang is back, and Reiner pays attention. “No bullshit.”

“I… you can come back to the gym. Whenever you want. And if you want another session, I’ll be your trainer.”

There’s something going on here. Something doesn’t feel right, and Reiner unconsciously straightens his spine, rising to the full height and breadth that he uses to his advantage all the time at work. “I thought you said no bullshit.”

Galliard makes an aggravated sound, and he’s _definitely_ swiping his hair off his forehead; Reiner can see it like a film playing in his mind’s eye. “They’re on my ass, okay? You left that great fucking review, and now they’re on my ass to seal the deal!”

Ah, work stuff. Just as Reiner suspected. He opens his mouth, about to decline the offer, when Galliard cuts him off. “And you’re about the perfect training client so just say yes!”

 _The perfect training client._ It’s not much, but it’s more than Reiner’s gotten in a long time. It’s an admission that there’s at least one thing about him that Galliard likes, and he can admit to himself that he really is sad and pathetic enough to latch on to whatever’s being offered. The perfect training client? He’ll take it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Galliard sounds surprised. “Really?”

“Really. When’s your next availability?”

“Uh… afternoons? This weekend? Saturday?”

“All right. Put me down for Saturday at two o’clock?”

“S-sure. Saturday at two.” Galliard sounds a little dazed, but he still has that faint lilt in his voice, which is better than that crazed, aggressive sales-pitch tone. Much better. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you.” Reiner disconnects the call and drops his hand to his side, still gripping the phone, and stares blankly out the window. The tiniest, squirmiest little worm of excitement wriggles in his gut. He has… a training session. A training session that he’s paying for, but still… it’s more like a date than anything he’s had in a long, long time.

“Soooooo…” Ymir slings a slender, weirdly strong arm around his neck, and Reiner jumps; she’s like a cat with the way she can sneak up behind people. “Who was that?”

“Galliard.”

“Who?”

“Galli—Jaws.”

“ _Jaws_? The _stripper_?”

“Yeah.” Reiner can feel a slow, stupid grin spreading across his face, and he’s powerless to stop it. “We’re meeting at the gym on Saturday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reiner ur easy
> 
> Golly gosh, I wonder how their training session is going to go?! My little baby fic has also grown to almost 20,000 words. It's over a quarter of the way to being novel-sized now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys have their first training session and things get interesting.
> 
> Early update because this is a.) the longest chapter yet at 5,600 words, and b.) a chapter that I'm really proud of.

Reiner spends way too long picking out his outfit for the gym on Saturday. 

It takes forty-five minutes and an emergency visit from Historia—accompanied by Ymir, who found the whole thing hilarious and was deeply unhelpful—before he decides on a pair of black shorts that fall to his knees and are fitting but not _too_ tight and a well-aged, clearly loved tank top with the legend _Sev’ral Timez World Tour 2013_ on it. He declines on Ymir’s suggestion of pasties under the tank, and shoves her out the door when she tries to hand him condoms.

He’s well-stocked in that department, thank you very much. But he’s also not planning on anything happening today. No, he’s going to be very professional and play it straight—or as straight as a grown man in a boy band tank top can play anything.

As he’s driving to the gym, Reiner can admit that he’s excited about this. It’s not a date, not technically, but he can’t help feeling like it is. It’s been a long, long time since he’s hung out with an attractive guy who was also interested in men, and even if they just do a work out together and then go home, he thinks he’ll be satisfied with his day.

“Reiner Braun, you are one sad, lonely guy.”

Saying it out loud in an empty car makes it feel far too real, and Reiner cranks up the radio and sings along for the rest of the drive to the gym.

Galliard is waiting for him in the gym’s entryway, standing behind the desk and looking over the shoulder of Hannah, the red-headed girl who works there. Reiner takes a moment to admire their hair, Hannah’s dark and a more fierce shade of red, Galliard’s paler and with those hints of gold in it, before Galliard looks up and sees him.

For just a moment, something uncertain flits across Galliard’s face—a moment of doubt? a moment of weakness?—but then he’s stepping around the desk and offering Reiner his hand to shake, wearing a big cheesy grin that matches the phone voice he’d used at the beginning of his spiel two days ago.

“Hey! Welcome back!” Galliard grasps Reiner’s hand and gives it three firm shakes before dropping it; he then immediately latches onto Reiner’s arm and starts leading him away. “Let’s go get your paperwork filled out and then we can get started!”

Reiner allows himself to be led, but when they’re out of Hannah’s earshot, he turns to look at Galliard and says, very quietly, “No bullshit.”

Galliard visibly bristles at that, but then his shoulders slump down in defeat and he sighs. “Yeah, okay, _fine_ , no bullshit, but just let’s get to one of the workrooms before that.”

Reiner nods—appearances matter, of course, especially when out in public—and he lets Galliard lead him through the gym, past the watching eyes of the other trainers and the Botoxed, pinched mouth woman who owns the place, into one of the little workrooms near the locker rooms. Galliard lets go of him as soon as they’re inside and the door is closed behind them, and Reiner takes a seat at the little table in the center of the room.

“ _God_ , she was staring at us the whole way in here!” Galliard shudders with disgust and scratches at his arms, like he’s trying to wipe away the feel of the gym owner’s eyes on him.

Reiner simply nods, and then looks at the papers spread out on the table in front of him. “So what are we going to do in here?”

Paperwork, he assumes, although he wouldn’t be opposed to Galliard dropping his shorts and telling him to get on his knees.

“We’ve got some forms to fill out. Liability and progress tracking and stuff.” Galliard settles into a chair across from Reiner and starts shuffling the forms. “So what’re your goals with this?”

So it’s going to be all business today, no cocksucking, and Reiner swallows down the faint disappointment that’s risen in his chest. He has to think about what his goals are for a moment, and Galliard waits, looking everywhere in the room except at Reiner’s face. At least he’s not doing the false, overly cheerful voice anymore.

“I was a lot bigger when I was younger. I suppose I’d like to get some of that mass back.”  
Galliard nods, writing something down on one of the forms. “How much bigger?”

“I topped out at two hundred and ten pounds when I was eighteen.”

Galliard nods and looks up at him, looking Reiner up and down and everywhere except in the eyes. “What’re you at now, around one eighty?”

“Last time I checked, yes.” Reiner is a little surprised at how easily Galliard guessed that, and it must show in his voice, because Galliard favors him with a quick, sly little grin before turning back to his notes.

“Have you gotten any taller since then?”

“Only about an inch.”

“All right, so nothing significant.” A few more notes, and then Galliard looks up at him, his gaze resting somewhere at Reiner’s chin region. “On the one hand, you’re lucky that you _lost_ weight after high school; most people come here because they’ve gotten fatter and want to lose some bulk.”  
Reiner nods; there are plenty of people at the firm with that exact problem.

“On the other, it’s going to be hard to build back that much muscle mass unless you make it your life’s work.” Galliard shrugs. “Unless you’re willing to commit to being in the gym everyday for hours, it’s probably not going to happen.”

“I don’t need to gain all of it back. Just some.” Reiner had lost some weight during university, but only about ten or twelve pounds. He’d hovered comfortably at around two hundred pounds for the last ten years, until about six months ago, when it had all started melting off.

“All right, good. Realistic goals are easier to work with.” Galliard shuffles the papers. “How’s your diet?”

“I try to eat well.” When he remembers to, anyway. Lately, Reiner just can’t be bothered to care about eating, and when he remembers, he just mindlessly consumes whatever’s close by. He used to care a lot; used to cook, used to plan out meals for the week, used to spend all day Sunday prepping and pre-cooking for the week to come. Now he orders take-out a lot, and he can’t remember the last time he went to the farmer’s marker on Saturday.

“Okay. Once we get a few weeks in, I’ll have you keep a food journal for a week and see if there’s anything to improve there.” Galliard pauses, playing with a pen, and when he speaks up again, he sounds almost painfully uncertain. “If you’re still interested after a few weeks, anyway.”

Reiner doesn’t answer right away, and Galliard looks away, scowling at the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not a bad trainer. I’m _not_! I’ll do right by you if you stick this out.” He glances in Reiner’s direction, and his cheeks redden before he looks away again. “No more sauna trips, I swear.”

The words escape before Reiner can call them back. “Even if I want another one?”

Galliard startles in his chair, and meets Reiner’s eyes for the first time. In this brightly-lit room, they look more blue than hazel, and Reiner notices for the first time that Galliard’s lashes are long enough to brush his cheeks when he blinks.

“Uh…” Galliard swallows a couple of times, then uncrosses his arms, putting his hands on the table. “Then, uh… ahem.” He clears his throat. “Then maybe… afterwards?”

“Sure.” Reiner smiles at him, and Galliard’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile back but is keeping himself from it. “For now, let’s keep it professional.”

“ _Consumate_ professional.” Galliard snorts, and turns back to his papers, but the atmosphere in the room has thawed quite a bit, and Reiner finds himself smiling as they finish the paperwork.

~*~

Galliard doesn’t take it easy on him during their workout, and Reiner is wrung out and drenched in sweat by the time they’re done. It’s a good feeling, though, getting worked over so thoroughly, and Galliard is right: he _is_ a good trainer. A little brusque sometimes, certainly, but overall very good. Reiner might end up passing his info on to a few of the guys at the firm who’ve been complaining about their middle age spread.

“All right, how’re you feeling?” They’re done working out and have retired to the gym’s juice bar, where Galliard had almost ordered a water until Reiner said he was paying. Galliard had looked at him through narrowed eyes, his shoulders humping up towards his shoulders again, then apparently decided that was okay and proceeded to order an enormous mixed juice with about three different powders added to it. He’s currently sitting across from Reiner, working on his kale-broccoli-artichoke-whatever concoction and looking pleased with himself.

“Honestly?” Reiner rotates his one arm, feeling his shoulder muscles stretch and flex with his other hand. “Exhausted. That was one of the best workouts I’ve had in a long time.”

Galliard nods, a small, smug smile on his face. “Told you I was good.”

Reiner nods in agreement and sips his own juice, a much more modest strawberry-banana mixture with just enough kale added to turn it green. “I’m going to recommend you to some of the guys at the firm.”

Galliard lifts an eyebrow at that. “The firm?”

“I work in law.”

“Ah.” Galliard mulls that over for a moment. “It’d be great if you did. But only if you’re really happy with our sessions?”

“I am.”

Reiner’s reassurances seem to sooth whatever was bothering Galliard, and he asks a few more questions about Reiner’s goals and his routines, all very basic stuff, as they finish their drinks. Galliard must be fairly relaxed and feeling comfortable, because he starts drawling his words a little more than usual, a trait Reiner finds endlessly endearing. He wishes Galliard would really let the Southern accent fly, but that’s probably too much to hope for.

Reiner finishes his juice and sets the glass aside. “So…”

Just like that, Galliard’s guard goes back up; his entire body language changes, becomes more withdrawn and shielded, and when he speaks, his words are clipped and enunciated again. “So what?”

Reiner doesn’t answer right away, just studies Galliard. He hates the way Galliard gets so guarded around him; they’d been doing so well, actually talking to each other like human beings, maybe even friends, and now they’re back to this. He wishes he could reach out and touch Galliard’s arm, tell him it’s going to be okay, he’s not a bad guy, he’s not going to report him to his boss or tell the other trainers what he does on the weekends. Every signal Galliard is sending tells Reiner that would be a bad idea, though, and he keeps his hands on the table, where Galliard can see them.

“So if you’re interested in hanging out more, I drove here and would be happy to drive us somewhere.” There. That’s nice and non-threatening.

Galliard has to think about that for a few moments, and he looks Reiner in the face for it, really studying him with narrowed eyes, watching him through those long, red-gold eyelashes. Reiner keeps his face smooth and pleasant, his ‘my client knows they’re in the right and you know it too so let’s just all be civil here’ face, but his heart is pounding like they’ve started working out again, and one of his legs twitches under the table.

Please say yes. 

Galliard abruptly rises to his feet. “Take a shower first. You smell terrible.” He collects their empty glasses to take back to the counter. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot in twenty minutes.”

“All right.” Galliard retreats before Reiner can say more, and he beams at Galliard’s back before standing up and making his way to the showers, as requested.

~*~

It takes Galliard more like forty minutes to get out to the underground parking garage, and Reiner spends at least twenty of them leaning against the side of his car, playing with his phone and fidgeting. He’s almost ready to give up and drive away when Galliard exits the gym, looking flustered and put out again. He looks both ways to make sure no one is watching him, then hurries across the garage to Reiner. 

“Get in, let’s go.” Galliard flings himself into Reiner’s car and then scrunches down in the seat, clearly trying to make himself inconspicuous, his worn canvas backpack hugged across his chest and his hand up to cover the side of his face. 

Reiner gets in more slowly—it’s hard not to be a little hurt by Galliard’s clear desire for secrecy, even if it _is_ understandable, considering his job—and starts the car. It comes to life with a quiet purr, and he pulls it out of the parking garage. Galliard doesn’t relax until they’re on the street, dropping his hand from his face, and Reiner thinks that it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d hidden his face or not; there’s no hiding that shining, beautiful hair. “Where do you want to go?”

Galliard looks out the window for a moment before answering. “Your place.”

“My place?” Reiner knows he sounds surprised, and Galliard shoots him A Look.

“If you’re going to murder me, you won’t do it at your own house. Too much mess to clean up.”

“I’m not planning on murdering you.”

“Whatever. Just drive.” Galliard stays slouched down, and pointedly stares out the window, and Reiner knows the conversation is over.

The drive back to Reiner’s apartment is short, and Galliard stays quiet the whole time. He starts sitting up the closer they get, and looking out the window with interest, and Reiner sneaks glances at him from the corner of his eye. He’s wearing a battered leather jacket, smooth and worn and just a fraction too big for him, and his backpack looks like it’s been through a wringer. His jeans are old and tight across his thighs in a way that’s not deliberate, and the engineer boots on his feet are worn down at the heels. Reiner can’t see his shirt, but he imagines it’s old too, and Galliard smells of the soap they use to stock the dispensers at the gym. He’s trying to look like a hipster, and coming agonizingly close to pulling it off; if everything fit right, if those boots weren’t so worn down, if he hadn’t immediately gone for the biggest juice when he found out someone else was paying, Reiner would believe he’s a young hipster that goes thrift shopping for fun and likes the taste of kale, rather than someone clinging to what they have and working with what they’ve got.

Reiner knows that feeling, and it makes his heart ache for Galliard. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering if there’s any way to broach the subject without sounding like a creep, and realizes there isn’t, not when they’re going back to his apartment to do… something. Not when Galliard is so sensitive to how Reiner perceives him, and so Reiner stays quiet too.

They park in Reiner’s designated spot, and Galliard wordlessly follows him into the elevator. Reiner has a moment of stark fear when he realizes that Historia—or worse yet, _Ymir_ —could get on the elevator with them, but the luck gods are smiling upon him today and the ride to his floor is smooth and uninterrupted. Galliard is twitchy and unsmiling next to him, toying with a strap on his backpack and shifting from foot to foot, and Reiner has no idea what to do to set him at ease.

Maybe this was a mistake.

The elevator opens with a quiet, polite charm, and Galliard follows Reiner into the hallway. Reiner walks to his apartment door and unlocks it, and Galliard immediately bulldozes past him into the apartment. Surprised by the sudden show of enthusiasm, Reiner closes the door behind them, but, after a moment’s consideration, doesn’t lock it. He knows no one can get this high up in the building without being noticed by security, so he’s not worried about home invaders, and it might make Galliard more comfortable to not have the door locked.

Galliard is currently busy prowling all over the apartment, opening doors and sticking his head inside, inspecting the curtains and furniture, opening the refrigerator door and making a soft scoffing noise before grabbing an apple out of it and crunching down on it. Reiner takes his shoes off and lines them up at the door and follows him, pausing in the living room and watching in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a murder closet.” Apparently satisfied that there isn’t one, Galliard comes and joins him in the living room, shrugging off his backpack and dropping it to the floor with a solid _thunk_. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.” A nice place with worn engineer boot prints all over it now, but Reiner doesn’t mention that. 

Galliard nods, and takes another bite out of his apple. “Take your shirt off.”

Reiner jumps a little, and immediately moves to comply. He’s not used to being ordered around like this, like Galliard had done in the sauna, and he can’t deny that he likes it. He likes the way excitement pools in his abdomen as he obeys Galliard’s command and pulls his shirt off and over his head. 

Galliard nods as Reiner drops his shirt on the floor, his eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. “You like that, don’t you? You like being bossed around.”

Reiner swallows, and nods. Yeah. Yeah, he didn’t think he would, but he does. He likes it a lot. 

“You like it when someone smaller than you tells you what to do?” Galliard sets his apple aside, slowly shrugging out of his jacket. He’s wearing a plain white v-neck t-shirt underneath, just as worn as Reiner thought it would be but clinging to his torso in all the right places.

Reiner starts to nod again, but Galliard scowls at him. “Say it!”

“Y-yeah.”

“Yeah, what?” Galliard toys with the neckline of his t-shirt, exposing some of that golden fluff Reiner remembers, the chain of his dog tags glinting in the light, and Reiner has to swallow before he can speak.

“Yea… _yes_ , I like it when you tell me what to do.”

Galliard favors him with that slow smirk, and untucks his shirt. “Good boy. Now take your pants off.”

Reiner’s jeans hit the floor mere seconds later, and Galliard actually laughs. It’s the first time Reiner has heard him laugh, and even though he’s laughing _at_ him, Reiner is instantly enamored by the sound of it. It’s rusty and creaking and sounds like Galliard is terribly out of practice, but it’s there.

“Damn, son, you _do_ like being told what to do.” Galliard reaches out and traces his fingertips up the length of Reiner’s cock, from the base to the tip, and if he weren’t rock hard already, that would be enough to get him there. As it is, Reiner shivers and has a horrible moment when he’s afraid he won’t last, that he’s going to blow right here into Galliard’s palm, but he desperately resorts to thinking about the unsexiest things he can. It’s a close call, but basketball comes through for him, and after teetering on the edge for another moment or two, he retreats back to safety.

Reiner pants through his mouth, and Galliard, who had watched the whole thing, lifts an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you just a thirsty little bitch?”

The Southern lilt is back, thicker than before, and Reiner chokes back on a moan while he nods. He is the _thirstiest_ little bitch.

Galliard’s fingertips linger at the head of Reiner’s cock, where all the nerves are bundled and it’s the most sensitive, then moves down, tweaking him along the shaft and making his cock thump against his abdomen. “Why don’t you go to the bedroom and lay down? I’ll be along directly.”

Reiner nods, letting out his breath in one shuddery gasp, and then hustles to his bedroom, nearly tripping over the pants pooled at his ankles on the way. Behind him, he hears rustles as Galliard presumably strips down, and then a crunch as he eats more of his apple.

In the bedroom, Reiner looks around wildly, making sure it’s up to his standards. Fortunately, he’s a pretty neat guy and it looks the way it always does. After a moment’s deliberation, he strips the blankets off the bed, getting it down to its sheets, and then lays down on his side. He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous and excited all at once, and he cracks open the drawer of his nightstand. He keeps supplies in there, just in case, and while they’ve been gathering dust for months, now might actually be the time to use them.

And then Galliard makes him wait. He takes his time out in the living room—Reiner can hear him eating his apple and then going into the kitchen to get a drink—and by the time he finally saunters in, Reiner is a twitchy, anticipatory mess.

“What’s the matter? Don’t like waiting?”

Reiner does not, but he’ll take it if this is what he’s waiting for. Galliard has taken off all his clothes, entering the room as naked and gorgeous as a carved Roman statue, but he left on his dog tags and his boots. He stands in front of Reiner, erect and proud and with one hip tilted haughtily to the side, those purposefully-left-on boots and dog tags screaming _aesthetic_ , and his eyes rake over Reiner, taking him all in, and Reiner is a gone man. He’ll do whatever Galliard wants him to do.

It only takes a moment for Galliard to decide. “On your back. Head dangling over the side of the bed.”

Reiner scrambles to comply, and with his head hanging off the side of the bed, he’s looking up at Galliard, and the view is just as good from down here. From here, Galliard towers over him, his cock a looming monolith, and Reiner licks his lips.

Galliard notices that, and a slow, sly grin spreads across his face. “What? You want this?” He grips his cock at the base and thumps it down against Reiner’s chin. “You want this again?”

“Y-yes.” Reiner’s voice is gravelly and broken with need, with want, and he swallows a few times, calling forth long dormant skills and relaxing the muscles of his throat.

“You sure?” Galliard thumps him again, almost playfully, and Reiner’s breath hitches in his chest as one hand drifts down to his groin. The other one reaches up, meaning to take hold of Galliard’s thigh, but Galliard smacks him away with his free hand. “No. You don’t get to touch me unless I tell you to. Understood?”

“Understood.” Reiner drops his hand to the sheet, next to his hip. “And yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Good boy. Open your mouth.”

Reiner shrugs his shoulders forward a little more, lining himself up better with Galliard’s height—which is perfect for the height of Reiner’s bed, maybe those boots were both an aesthetic _and_ practical choice—and opens his mouth.

“That’s right…” Galliard eases himself into Reiner’s waiting mouth, and Bertolt’s voice flashes through Reiner’s head again— _you should really make him wear a condom, you don’t have any excuse now, they’re right in the nightstand_ —before he dismisses it and curls his tongue around the head of Galliard’s cock. Galliard sighs above him, and takes hold of Reiner’s chin with his other hand, pushing his mouth open further. “That’s right, take all of it, I know you can…”

Reiner can indeed, and when Galliard bumps lightly up against the back of his throat, Reiner swallows around him, making Galliard sigh again and his grip on Reiner’s chin tighten.

“That’s right, big guy, show me what you can do.” Another squeeze to Reiner’s chin, and then Galliard’s hand drifts down to his throat. Reiner tenses for a moment, but Galliard doesn’t squeeze, simply rests his hand on Reiner’s neck, and he relaxes again. “That’s right, that’s right…” Galliard strokes Reiner’s neck, along his windpipe, making Reiner swallow again, and Galliard shudders above him. “That’s right, rich boy, just like that…”

Reiner swallows, and then realizes that Galliard isn’t moving. This isn’t going to be a repeat of the hurried, frenzied face-fucking in the sauna; this is something different, something slower and sweeter, and if there’s one thing Reiner is good at in the sack, it’s slow and sweet. He swallows again, just to feel Galliard’s thighs twitch on either side of his temples, and then starts slowly bobbing his head up and down.

Galliard keeps his hand on Reiner’s throat, a constant, heavy presence, and while Reiner has never really been interested in breathplay, he likes having it there. He likes the way Galliard gives it the faintest, lightest little squeezes whenever his cock is deep in Reiner’s throat, and he likes the pressure when he swallows and his windpipe pushes upward, into Galliard’s hand. He likes how, when Galliard is deep in his throat, his cock pushed all the way to Reiner’s tonsils, his balls push forward and cover Reiner’s nose, smothering him in musky velvet and blocking out all air for a few brief seconds. It’s a loss of control, a ceding of something as simple and essential as air itself to Galliard, and Reiner has never been this turned on in his life. His cock is heavy and engorged on his stomach, leaking pre-cum into his treasure trail, but Reiner makes no move to touch it until Galliard lets go of his own dick and guides Reiner’s hand to his groin.

“Go on…” Galliard’s breath is heavy and hitching, his voice raspy and thick. “Go on, I want to watch…”

Reiner makes a gargling sound, all he can manage with his throat full of Galliard’s cock, and grips himself. There’s no way to get lube or lotion from this position, but with how turned on he is, he doesn’t need it. His hand slides slick and easy over his length, and Reiner closes his eyes, surrendering to all the sensation around him, wanting no further distractions beyond what he can taste and feel.

Time takes on a dreamy, gauzy quality, reduced to the cock in his mouth, the hand on his throat, and his own hand stroking his length. Reiner can feel salvia and pre-cum building up in his throat, but there’s no time to swallow it as Galliard starts thrusting on his own, their pace quickening, and it escapes the corners of his mouth and starts running down his cheeks, towards his eyes. The quickened thump of Galliard’s cock in the back of his throat starts going deeper, going harder, and tears of exertion build up behind Reiner’s closed eyelids, threatening to breech them and join the commingled cum and spit already on his face. His breath gets shorter and shorter, the time between thrusts narrowing, and Galliard’s hand squeezes down harder, like he’s trying to feel his cock through Reiner’s neck, and Reiner gets lightheaded but never stops stroking himself.

When he comes, it’s explosive, so abrupt and powerful that it catches Reiner by surprise, and he manages an enormous, gasping breath as he splatters himself all the way up to his collarbones. It’s a good thing he does, because Galliard moans above him and suddenly both his hands are on Reiner’s neck, wrapping around it and holding firm as Galliard’s cock slams into the back of Reiner’s throat and floods it with viscous, salty cum. Reiner swallows instinctually, and Galliard’s thighs shudder on either side of his head as he lets go, drawing his cock back a little, and Reiner gulps air in through his nose.

Galliard stays in Reiner’s mouth until his orgasm is finished, and Reiner is done lapping at the head of his cock, getting the last few drops of cum, and then he pulls out with a low moan. He braces himself on Reiner’s chest for a moment, both hands splayed across his pecs, then takes two steps to the side and collapses on the bed next to Reiner. Reiner feels the bed shift as Galliard gathers his arms under his head, and Reiner slouches his way downward, until his head is back on the bed and the blood starts draining out of it.

Holy shit, he hasn’t come like that since he was a teenager, or possibly ever, and Reiner turns his head a little to see a vision of Galliard’s thighs and ass beside him, and a lovelier thing he’s never seen. As his head slowly clears and his own cum dries on his stomach, Reiner closes his eyes and dozes off to the sound of Galliard breathing beside him.

~*~

Reiner wakes up to the sound of someone moving around in the apartment, and for a moment, he doesn’t remember who it is. Then it all comes rushing back to him, and Reiner sits up. He’s covered in dried cum and his throat feels rough and scratchy, but he’s also more relaxed than he’s been in months.

Turns out Galliard is good at supervising more than one kind of workout.

Reiner snags his bathrobe and shrugs into it before padding out into the living room.

Galliard is sitting on the sofa, pulling his boots back on, and he looks up when Reiner comes in. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” Reiner lingers in the doorway, suddenly uncertain; what’s the protocol here? Judging by the light outside the window, he didn’t sleep for too long, maybe an hour or so, but it looks like Galliard is getting ready to leave.

Galliard cements that assumption by tugging his boot into place and standing up. He’s fully dressed, and he picks his backpack up from the floor, shouldering it again. Reiner’s heart sinks when he sees that Galliard isn’t meeting his eyes again, instead looking at a spot near his collarbone. “You’ve, uh, you’ve got something on your face.”

Reiner reaches up and scratches lightly through his beard, jarring loose flakes of dried fluid, and shrugs. “I’ll take a shower later.” A pause. “You don’t have to go.”

“I have a shift at the club.” Galliard glances up and smiles, but it’s a grim, tight smile without any humor in it. “Can’t leave the ladies waiting, now can I?”

“I guess not.” Reiner follows him to the door, wishing he didn’t have to leave but knowing he’s in no position to ask him to stay. “Do you work there often?”

Galliard’s look lets Reiner know that’s not a question he should be asking, his eyes as flat and opaque as nickels on the sidewalk. “Often enough.” 

“Okay.” And yet they both stop at the door, lingering like there’s something unfinished between them, and Reiner struggles to figure out what to say, what to do, to end something that feels hopelessly incomplete. “I, uh, I had a good…”

“Don’t.” Galliard isn’t looking at him, and his grip tightens on his backpack strap. “Don’t make this weird.”

It’s already pretty weird, as far as Reiner is concerned, but okay. “All right. See you at the gym.”

“Yeah. See you at the gym.” And if Galliard had left when he said that, it would have been over. Incomplete, but over. But he stays in place, and glances up and actually meets Reiner’s eyes for a moment, and there’s so much hurt and confusion and sadness there that Reiner just wants to wrap his arms around Galliard and take him back to the bedroom and hold him for the rest of the night. Instead, he impulsively leans in for a kiss.

Reiner catches a brief glimpse of Galliard’s eyes widening in shock, and then Galliard turns his head, so Reiner’s lips land high on his cheekbone instead of on his mouth. Galliard makes a strangled, distressed sound and puts both hands on Reiner’s chest, pushing him backwards with enough force to make Reiner stumble.

“ _Don’t_.” Galliard is wild-eyed and panicked, suddenly panting, and Reiner stares at him, completely flummoxed as to what went wrong but knowing he’s fucked up, he’s fucked up _bad_ , and Galliard looks like a cat cornered by angry dogs. “Don’t do that. Don’t _ever_ do that!”

“I… I won’t.” Don’t try to kiss him? What on earth does Galliard have against _kissing_?

Galliard scrubs his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket, shooting Reiner one last frantic, miserable look, then scrambles with the doorknob, flinging the door open and escaping into the hall. 

“Galliard!” Reiner follows him, not caring that he’s only wearing his bathrobe, that he’s barefoot, only knowing that he’s done something horribly wrong and needing to set it right. “Galliard, wait!”

“Don’t follow me!” Galliard plunges down the hallway, ignoring the elevator and flinging open the door to the stairs. Reiner stops in his tracks—he’s already stomped all over enough of Galliard’s boundaries today—and watches in despondence as the door to the stairs swings shut with a bang and the sound of Galliard running down the stairs fades.

What did he _do_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been three chapters since Reiner got any cum on his face. Time to correct this oversight.
> 
> Please note that this chapter was directly inspired by some art by Kaschy and Greeneyespeeledforbluelookers. Thank you both so much for your incredible, inspirational work!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys call in their best friends for emotional support.

It’s Monday evening, which means it’s time for Reiner’s weekly call to Bertolt.

He finds himself procrastinating as the evening wears on, finding little things to do to occupy his attention, tasks long delayed that need to be done _right now_ so he doesn’t have to make this phone call. It’s not that Reiner doesn’t want to talk to his best friend; he cherishes his relationship with Bertolt and would never do anything to hurt him. It’s that he knows Bertolt will be able to tell something is wrong—he’ll _know_ , he can ferret information out of Reiner like some kind of sad-eyed guardian angel—and he’ll want to know what, and how he can help fix it, and Reiner isn’t sure this can be fixed.

Saturday evening and all day Sunday had dragged on; Reiner had tried to work, but the firm is between cases at the moment and his workload is light, so he couldn’t even drown himself in the solace of work. He’d thought about going to the gym but it was too late in the day and he didn’t want to run into Galliard—he did, but he also didn’t, since half the time Galliard acts like he’s afraid of Reiner and the other half of the time he’s shoving his dick in Reiner’s mouth and Reiner had no idea which Galliard he’d have seen if he’d gone into the gym—so he’d gone on a long run in the park, circling the tree-lined running path again and again until he’d been trembling with exhaustion, his leg muscles aching and weak underneath him. Even that hadn’t silenced the yammering voices in his head, and Reiner had never been so happy for the arrival of Monday morning and a chance to escape to work.

It isn’t until Reiner has his head inside his refrigerator, scrubbing down the shelves inside, that he realizes he’s being ridiculous. He’s going to make Bertolt worry if he keeps this up, and Bertolt doesn’t deserve that. Reiner puts the food back in the fridge, jots down that he needs to buy more apples on his shopping list, and goes to collapse on the couch in the living room with his phone.

As the phone rings and he waits for Bertolt to pick up, Reiner ponders, not for the first time, if he shouldn’t have just moved out to Marley with Bertolt after law school. He’d have had to pass the Marley bar exam, but he’d passed the Trost one the first time out, and with no real difficulties. There had even been a professor in law school with connections in Marley, someone who had offered to help him with contacts, but Reiner had chosen to stay in Trost.

Maybe that had been a mistake. There are too many ghosts in Trost, too much unfinished business and lurking memories, and maybe Bertolt had the right idea with wanting to start fresh. Maybe Reiner should have sloughed off his Trost skin and followed his best friend to Marley’s sunny shores, given up on dirty old Trost and its long winters and blazing hot summers and tried again somewhere new, somewhere without memory and without expectation. Maybe he’d be happier there.

“Hello?” Bertolt’s soft voice interrupts Reiner’s pondering, and a little tremor runs through his body, the equivalent of a dog shaking water off its fur.

“Hey, nerd. You need a paladin in the party?”

“Hi, Reiner.” Bertolt always sounds happy to hear from him, and Reiner tries to ignore how that feels like a long, cold drink of water on a sizzling hot day. “I’m working on a campaign right now that practically requires a paladin.”

“You have my interest. Go on.”

“Well, you don’t _need_ one, but it’ll be really helpful to have one when all the undead appear and…”

Reiner settles more comfortably onto the couch, listening patiently as Bertolt describes the newest campaign he’s working on, making noises of agreement at all the right times. Reiner hasn’t played Dungeons and Dragons in a long time, but he still fondly remembers all the epic quests he and Bertolt went on when they were younger and only had each other. Bertolt had always been a wonderful DM, and Reiner is so proud that he’s managed to make it into his career. Between teaching creative writing at a private high school and writing campaigns for Wizards of the West Coast, Bertolt is doing really well for himself, and Reiner couldn’t be prouder of him.

“… and that’s all I’ve got so far.” It’s a myth that Bertolt never speaks, or is painfully shy; Reiner knows that once you get him going, it’s a real challenge to shut him up. “What’s going on with you?”

“Not a lot.” A blatant lie, and Reiner sighs as he slouches lower onto the couch. He could try and hide what’s going on from Bertolt, but he knows Bertolt will realize he’s not telling him something and press him for information. “I met someone.”

“You did? Reiner, that’s great!” Bertolt sounds so genuinely pleased and excited for him that it makes Reiner’s chest hurt a little bit. “What’s he like?”

“What, you don’t believe I could fall for a woman?” Teasing. Deflecting.

“No.” Bertolt isn’t buying it, not for a moment. He knows how incredibly, unapologetically gay Reiner is. “Tell me about him.”

“He’s… he’s shorter than I am. Works out a lot, so he’s pretty cut. Reddish-blond hair. Clean shaven. A few years younger than me.”

“He sounds cute.” Bertolt is nothing if not supportive.

“He is.” Especially when he smiles, even if it’s the Jaws smirk, or when he does that sharp, rusty little laugh. “He’s nervous, though. And… it’s like he doesn’t know how to be around me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s… different. Depending on where we are.”

“Reiner…” Bertolt sounds suspicious now. “You didn’t fall for a closet case, did you?”

“No! I…” Reiner has to stop and think for a minute, and damn if Bertolt doesn’t have a point. “I mean, he _could_ be? But I don’t think so.”

“You need to find that out. You deserve better than that.”

Reiner laughs a little at that. Bertolt always believes the best of Reiner, even when it’s not true, and it’s one of the things he loves about him. “Yeah, so anyway…”

“What’s his name?”

“Galliard.”

There’s a pause. “Galliard what?”

“That’s it. Just Galliard.”

“You don’t know his full name?”

“It hasn’t come up yet.” 

Bertolt is silent, and Reiner’s shoulders slump; he can feel Bertolt’s faint disapproval through the miles of empty air space between them. “Reiner…”

“I told you, it’s really new! I’ll find it out sooner or later!”

Bertolt sighs, and Reiner can picture him shaking his head, his long bangs swooping back and forth across his forehead. “Is this a rebound thing?”

The question is so sudden and out of nowhere that Reiner needs to take a moment to gather his thoughts before responding. “Why do you think that?”

“Because this is the first person you’ve talked about since Jean left.” Bertolt pauses, waiting for a denial that Reiner can’t, in good conscience, give, before plowing onward. “I know you’re lonely, but do you really just want a rebound fuck or two? That’s never been your style.”

Reiner groans and covers his eyes with one hand. “Thanks, Bert. Really supportive of you, Bert.”

“I _am_ being supportive!”

“You ask me if the new guy is just a rebound fuck, you bring up the guy that cheated on me…”

“He never cheated on you.”

“How could you possibly know that?” It’s the only thing, in Reiner’s eyes, that makes sense. Why else would Jean just _leave_ the way he had? What could Reiner possibly have done wrong to make him just pick up and walk away from two years of history, two years where they’d been happy? 

Reiner, at least, had been happy.

“I just do.”

“You didn’t even like Jean.”

“I liked Jean. I just never thought he was right for you.”

“Wish you’d told me that before I wasted two years with him.”

“Would you have listened to me even if I had?”

Even Reiner can admit that he wouldn’t have. “Look, can we change the subject? I want to describe Galliard’s ass to you.”

“Only if I get to tell you about Annie’s curves afterwards.” Reiner can hear the hint of a smile in Bertolt’s voice, and knows that the subject of Jean is dropped, for the time being. He also knows that Bertolt won’t really wax poetic about his fiancee’s curves to him. He’s met Annie, and likes her; she’s fiery and passionate under her reserved exterior, and she’s very protective of Bertolt. It’s clear she cares about him, and Bertolt is head over heels for her. Reiner has already requested time off next fall for their wedding.

“An ass for an ass, huh? Okay, but I get to go first.”

The conversation meanders to safer topics, but Reiner can’t help thinking about what Bertolt had said. What _is_ Galliard’s first name? Why hasn’t he told Reiner yet? Is Reiner just looking at this as a rebound thing, and could he, even if he wanted to? Or is he in danger of something deeper, of developing actual feelings for Galliard?

He thinks he knows the answer already.

~*~

Galliard is so tired that when he looks at the espresso machine, his vision doubles and he nearly causes a disaster when he reaches for a ghostly illusion of a lever and his hand knocks on the side of the machine.

He blinks, rapidly, trying to force his vision to clear. It was another long weekend, as they always are, but his sleep has been thin and broken ever since Saturday, his tossing and turning on his futon so restless that Sarge has taken to sleeping on his bed on the other side of the room.

Every time he closes his eyes to sleep, Galliard sees Reiner. He sees Reiner lying on his back, his head thrown back and his mouth open and waiting, his pale, sparse chest hair catching the sunshine in the room as his chest rises and falls with each breath, his massive cock lying heavy and swollen across his abdomen. He sees Reiner doing as he’s told, listening to everything Galliard asks of him, including picking up his phone and arranging ten weeks of personal training sessions, at no small expense to himself, a commitment that had made Michelle raise an eyebrow but remain otherwise uncharacteristically silent. He sees Reiner talking to people at his firm, a place Galliard has never visited and so exists in perpetual, anonymous office building twilight, and Galliard’s schedule at the gym suddenly has appointments on it, two other men and one woman all requesting training sessions, with the possibility to commit to more. He can picture Reiner’s face, wearing that confident, classically handsome grin, the way he’d smiled at Franz and then never again, telling his coworkers about his new trainer and recommending him, and those men and woman calling the gym, requesting him by name, and suddenly he has the possibility of a _schedule_ , of not having to hang out at the gym at all hours, trying desperately to snare clients, and Galliard knows he has Reiner Braun to thank for it.

“Gali?”

Galliard looks up, his eyes suddenly feeling scratchy and rough, tingling at the corners, and sees Pieck standing at the counter, watching him with concerned eyes. 

“Gali, are you okay?”

He gives himself a shake, trying to clear the cobwebs away, and nods. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Pieck is unconvinced, but knows that she’ll need a more subtle strategy if she wants to get to the bottom of this, and Galliard realizes that he wants to tell her. He needs to talk to someone about this, and Sarge, while having many fine points in his favor, isn’t much of a conversationalist. “Can I get a…”

Galliard is already making it, his hands reaching automatically for Pieck’s preferred London Fog. “Got it.”

She smiles at that, and taps her bank card to the reader to pay for it. “Thanks. Can you take your break now?”

Galliard considers that; it’s a little early, but it’s also quiet at the moment, and who knows when he’ll get another chance? “Let me ask.” He gestures towards the squashy leather seats out in the sitting area. “Go sit down, I’ll bring you your drink.”

“Thank you.”

Five minutes later, Galliard comes to join Pieck, carrying her London Fog and his own double espresso with two pumps of vanilla syrup and a dash of milk to make it palatable. If that doesn’t wake him up a little, he doesn’t know what will. He’s also scored some day-old pastries that are a little stale around the edges but still good, and settles it all on the little table between them. “M’lady.”

“My hero.” Pieck bats her eyes at him as she wraps her hands around her cup, and Galliard manages a tired smile for her.

“Your standards for heroics are laughably low.”

She shrugs. “A girl takes what she can get.”

They both take a drink, Pieck closing her eyes in appreciation and Galliard trying not to gag.

“Are you feeling okay, Gali? You look really tired.”

Michelle is the only other person who calls him Gali, and when she does it, it makes Galliard’s blood boil. It sounds sweeter when Pieck does it, like a term of endearment instead of a subtle power play, and Galliard doesn’t mind. “It’s been a long week.”

“It’s only Tuesday!”

“I worked all weekend. You know that.”

Pieck nods and frowns. “You work too hard. You’re going to kill yourself at this pace.”

Galliard shrugs. “Yeah, well, my options are work like hell or live on the streets. But!” He holds up one hand, and Pieck pauses, her rebuttal ready but stilled on her lips. “But I have a client at the gym now, _and_ I have three appointments this week for other people who could be clients.”

“Really?” Pieck leans forward, her long hair cascading over her shoulders and framing her face like drapes. “What’s he like?”

Of course. Of course she’d zero in on _that_ , and Galliard grimaces. Had he really been that obvious? “He’s… he’s good. Hard worker.”

“Is he handsome?”

Galliard stares at her coldly. “What difference does that make?”

“Ooooh.” She sits back, smiling like a cat who just pushed something breakable off a table while being watched. “That means yes.”

“Pieck!”

“What? I’m _happy_ for you.” She does seem genuinely happy for him; if only she knew. “Tell me about him.”

Galliard looks down into the oily, heart-attack-inducing mess in his cup. “He’s… he lives downtown. In the middle of downtown.”

She nods. “Fancy. Does he have money?”

“If he has a membership at the gym, what do you think?”

“So yes.”

“Yes.”

“Is he nice?”

That’s an excellent question, a better one than she knows, and Galliard stares into his cup as he thinks about how to respond. _Is_ Reiner nice? He signed up for more sessions, the second of which is tomorrow, and got Gallaird’s ass off the firing squad. He didn’t report Galliard for unprofessional behavior in the sauna; he let Galliard into his house and then, when they were both on the bed and catching their breath, didn’t try to touch him, just let him grab a catnap. And then, when Galliard had pushed him away at the door, he hadn’t been angry. He’d just stared at him, shocked and hurt, as though he’d thought they were boyfriends and Galliard had just broken his heart. And if Galliard _had_ broken his heart, Reiner had gone to work and told his coworkers about him, talking up his training skills, and gotten three of them to sign up. And he hadn’t canceled his session for tomorrow either.

Ignoring how he’d just thought the word _boyfriend_ in association with Reiner fucking-thirsty-little-bitch Braun, Galliard shrugs again. “He’s okay.”

Pieck tilts her head, reminding Galliard of Sarge when he sees a treat and knows he’s going to get it, but doesn’t know when. “If you like him, Gali, why don’t you try and date him?”

Galliard scoffs into his coffee and takes a deep, burning sip that almost makes him gag. “I didn’t say I like him.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Just that he’s the first guy you’ve ever told me about, and you brought him up on your own.” Pieck smiles at him, her eyes lazy and self-satisfied but seeing everything. “And that your ears and cheeks are turning red.”  
“They are not!” Galliard rakes his hand over one offending ear and the side of his face, as if he could erase any evidence writ across them. “It’s hot in here, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.” Pieck sips her tea in quiet contemplation for a few moments, giving Galliard time to think about what she’s said.

Date Reiner Braun? That’s laughable. That’s _worse_ than laughable; it’s a sick joke. Reiner would never date a guy like Galliard, someone who came from nothing and hasn’t managed to claw his way much above it. Reiner lives in a beautiful apartment downtown, and has a good job, a _real_ job, and a gym membership that costs almost as much as Galliard’s rent. Reiner wears Armani boxer briefs and has a closet full of tailored suits, suits that probably look really damn good draped across his broad shoulders, and drives a car that’s an import and expensive without being flashy, and has perfect teeth and a sculpted body and is so goddamn handsome when he smiles that he could be a model, if not for that polo-broken nose. And someone like that doesn’t want someone like Galliard, who takes his clothes off for drunk, shrieking ladies twice a week and does much worse online a few times more. He doesn’t want someone with a smelly, ancient dog that is starting to wet his bed more and more often; someone who is in real danger of failing the class he’s taking this semester and having to retake it, pushing his graduation back _another_ year; someone whose clothes are all starting to get holes from repeated washings and were all from the thrift store in the first place. 

He doesn’t want Galliard.

Galliard shakes his head, and is horrified when his voice almost cracks when he speaks. “He wouldn’t want to be with me.”

Guys like Galliard are for fun, and fucking, and not much else. They’re not for relationships. Especially not with guys like Reiner Braun.

Pieck reaches across the table and takes his hand, and Galliard lets her. He even squeezes it back when her fingers tighten around his. “Gali…”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I’m _not_.”

“All right, I won’t. You are, but I won’t.”

Galliard surprises both of them by snorting laughter. “That’s the opposite of what I said.”

Pieck offers him a sweet little smile. “What’re friends for?” Then she sits back, taking her hand away, and watches him until it starts to get uncomfortable.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about how people have tried to make decisions for me my whole life.” She nods at her forearm crutches, propped next to the chair. “You know, ‘for my own good,’ because the poor little crippled girl couldn’t decide things for herself.”

“That’s bullshit!” Galliard is instantly offended on her behalf. “You’re one of the most together people I know!”

“Thank you, and I know. But it took a long time and a lot of work to convince everyone that I didn’t need looking after, and I could make decisions on my own. And it always drove me _crazy_ , because it’s so damn presumptuous, thinking you can know what another person is thinking or what they want.”

Galliard nods, waiting for more, but she stops there and stares at him. A few long moments pass, until he prompts her. “And?”

Pieck sighs and flops back in her chair. “And isn’t that exactly what you’re doing for this training session guy?”

Galliard opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, and this time uses it to gulp the rest of his coffee. “Dammit.”

“Yes.” Pieck sips at her tea, hiding her mouth, but her eyes above the cup’s rim are smiling. “Dammit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's what Bertolt is doing in this AU, living his best life in Marley/California and being engaged to Annie, while Pieck is a graduate student in Trost who likes trolling her best friend at work.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner does some tutoring and Galliard takes a nap.

Reiner is just settling in to watch a soccer game when someone starts pounding on his door.

The sound jolts him to attention, and he sits up abruptly, nearly knocking his bowl of popcorn onto the floor. What the hell? There are only so many people that could be, and Historia would call first and Ymir would be yelling his name from out there. Since neither of those things have happened, it’s not either of them, and that narrows it right down. A repair man of some kind, maybe?

Reiner grunts as he gets to his feet. He could use the distraction, honestly; the game that’s playing was supposed to serve that purpose, but it wasn’t working too well. He’s procrastinating, and he knows it; he needs to call the gym and cancel his appointment for tomorrow, but something is holding him back. Reiner doesn’t _want_ to cancel it, but he also doesn’t think he can stand being around Galliard if he’s going to be nervous and edgy around him. He doesn’t know where they stand, but he does know that things can’t continue the way they are, and he’s going to have to be the one to break them off.

The pounding on his door continues, and Reiner shuffles towards it. He’s wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, not the classiest things on earth, but if he’s going to open the door to a delivery man, it doesn’t really matter. 

Reiner unlocks the door and opens it, and as soon as he does, a little flurry of red hair and leather jacket pushes his way inside. Reiner steps aside, shocked, as Galliard lets himself in.

“It’s about time you got to the door, it’s freezing out there!”

“I… what are you doing here?” Galliard has brought the scent of cold air in with him, and Reiner glances out the window. No snow, but it looks windy out there. Spring in Trost is always unpredictable. 

Just like the guy kicking off his boots and striding towards Reiner’s kitchen table.

“You’re smart, right?” Galliard plops down on one of Reiner’s chairs and starts rooting through his backpack.

“Uh… yes?” Reiner follows, dazed, and sits down across from him. “Why?”

“Good.” Galliard pulls a brick of a textbook out of his bag and thunks it down on the table. _Economics_ is printed across the top, along with a used book sticker. Galliard pulls some printed pages out of the book and slides them across the table to Reiner. “My teacher is shit and I _can’t_ fail this class. Explain what I’m doing wrong.”

“I didn’t really study economics…” Even as he says it, Reiner is reaching for the papers and looking them over. He winces when he sees the score at the top: forty seven percent. Galliard got so close to passing, but not quite there.

“It’s a requirement.” Galliard has his arms crossed over his chest and his chin thrust out, looking both angry and desperate at the same time. “So even if I fail it, I have to take it again. And I _can’t_ fail it.”

“It’s too late to switch to another professor?”

“Yes. And there aren’t any other classes at times I can make.” Galliard leans forward, looking with distaste at the test Reiner has in his hands. “So can you help me with this or not?”

“I think so.” Reiner sees the way Galliard’s mouth twitches at the corner, and changes his assessment. “Yes, I can. Give me a few minutes to look this over and see what the class is doing.”

“Okay.” Galliard gets up and leaves for a moment, returning with the bowl of popcorn from the couch. He starts cramming it in his mouth, eating with a hunger that Reiner remembers from high school, when he’d been going to class, playing soccer, and working a part-time job after school. Carefully, he pushes the bowl of fruit he has on the table in Galliard’s direction, making sure to make it look like he’s just moving it out of the way. Once the fruit is in reach, Galliard grabs an apple and crunches down on it, and Reiner turns his attention to the book.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out the problem; it’s an Economics 101 textbook, basic microeconomics, and even though he hasn’t taken the class in almost ten years, it all comes flooding back. “You keep switching your numbers around.” He points at a spot on the test. “See? You switched a seven and a three here. And then it happened again over here. You’re setting up the equations right, but then you’re making math mistakes that give you the wrong result.”

“Fuck.” Galliard swallows a mouthful of fruit and popcorn before leaning forward to scowl at the paper. “I _hate_ math.”

Reiner smiles a little. “It was never my favorite, either.”

They go through the test together, and by the time they’re done, Reiner is fairly confident Galliard recognizes his mistakes, and should be able to fix them by himself in the future. He’s also managed to eat all of Reiner’s popcorn, along with two apples and a banana from the fruit bowl.

“Do you understand it now?”

“Yeah.” Galliard flips through a few pages in the book, snorting at what he sees in the next chapter. “Some of these problems are bullshit.”

Reiner sits back, grabbing an apple of his own out of the fruit bowl. “What are you studying?”

For a moment, he’s worried that Galliard won’t answer, but he responds readily enough, his attention still snared by the textbook. “Physical therapy.”

“You want to be a physical therapist?” Reiner is charmed, both by picturing Galliard as a physical therapist and the relative ease with which he got this information.

“Yeah.” Galliard glances up, his gaze skating across Reiner’s cheekbones, before looking back at the book. “It’s like being a personal trainer, but with more science. And people who got hurt instead of just being lazy.”

Reiner bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Is that how you view your clients at the gym?”

“Most of them.” Another glance at Reiner, this one more appreciative, lingering on his chest. “Not all.”

Is that a compliment? Reiner will take it.

“What kind of lawyer are you?”

“Intellectual property rights and copyright infringement.”

Galliard’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

Reiner shrugs, a little embarrassed. “It’s okay. We mostly work with pharmaceutical companies.”

“How’d you get that job?”

“I minored in Chemistry when I was in college.” That, and his mother insisted that Reiner go for the type of law with the most prestige, and the highest paycheck, withholding her pride and approval until he did.

Galliard is actively studying him now, the textbook forgotten and open on the table. “Do you like it?”

Good question. Reiner likes parts of it, certainly; it’s a relief to be financially comfortable, and able to afford nice things. The work isn’t terribly taxing, not with his Chemistry background; he usually does the same thing, day in and day out, searching chemical formulas for similarities that could be under copyright. It’s been months since he’s been in a courtroom, and even then, the cases usually aren’t very dramatic or interesting. Most of the companies know when they’re stealing each other’s ideas, and tend to settle out of court.

No, it’s not a bad job, but it’s not a particularly good one either. It’s not what Reiner thought he’d be doing when he got accepted into law school.

“I like the opportunities it’s opened for me.” His answer comes slowly, thoughtfully. “And I like arguing cases. But the work isn’t the most stimulating.”

“So no.” Galliard nods; he clearly understands having jobs you don’t like. “What kind of law did you want to do?”

That answer comes much easier, and instantly. “Family law.”

Galliard blinks. “Like custody cases and stuff?”

“That kind of stuff exactly.”

Galliard considers that for a moment. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he lets loose an enormous, jaw-splitting yawn. For the first time, Reiner notices the bags under Galliard’s eyes, so heavy and dark that he almost looks bruised, and the way his hands are shaking faintly on top of his book.

“Long night last night.” Abruptly, Galliard pushes his chair back and stands up, and Reiner rises to follow him into the living room. Galliard glances at the tv, and the game still playing there, before flopping onto the couch and laying down, stretching out. He looks defiantly at Reiner, like he’s expecting to be told to move, but when Reiner says nothing, Galliard pulls his legs up and gestures towards the end of the couch. Reiner sits down, and jumps when Galliard stretches his legs out again, resting them in Reiner’s lap.

“Wake me up in forty five minutes?”

“Uh… sure. Okay.” The weight of Galliard’s legs across his lap is heavier than Reiner expected, and he has no idea where to put his hands, eventually settling for putting one on the arm rest and draping the other behind the back of the couch. He privately thinks that Galliard looks like he could use a lot longer than forty five minutes, but he’ll recognize this gift for what it is and take it without complaint.

“Okay.” And just like that, Galliard is asleep, his arms crossed defensively over his chest and his face tilted towards the back of the couch. Reiner is honestly a little impressed; he can’t remember the last time he dropped off that quickly, going from being awake to being sound asleep in literally about three seconds. He hasn’t been that exhausted and sleep-deprived since law school.

Reiner lets his gaze linger over Galliard’s face for a moment, then turns his attention back to the game on the tv. Or he tries to, at least; he finds that he keeps glancing back over, looking at the heavily sleeping Galliard on his couch. It’s a rare show of trust, he realizes, for Galliard to sleep around him; Reiner has no idea if Galliard actually fell asleep the last time he was here, or if he just laid next to Reiner, awake and cautious the entire time. It’s even rarer for Galliard to touch him so casually, even if it’s just his legs draped across Reiner’s lap, and after a few minutes, when Reiner is sure Galliard is deeply asleep and he won’t get kicked, he carefully lowers one hand and rests it lightly on Galliard’s ankle. Galliard doesn’t even twitch, just keeps sleeping.

Galliard’s ankle is narrower than Reiner thought it would be, the bones of it knobby and prominent under Reiner’s hand. His sock feels thin and wore, a few bare threads away from wearing through in places, and Reiner wishes he could mend it for him without that being super, super weird. It might be spring, but that just means it’s going to get wet around the city, and he’s going to go out on a limb and guess that Galliard’s boots aren’t watertight anymore.

Reiner realizes he’s being a creeper, and even if no one knows about it, a creeper is still a creeper. He gives Galliard’s ankle a gentle squeeze and then tries to watch the game; he really, genuinely tries to watch the game. He can’t, though, not with Galliard asleep on the couch beside him and the skin of his leg warm and pliant under his hand. His gaze keeps skittering over, and while he tries to be a gentleman and look away, he eventually gives in and just watches Galliard sleep. Even in sleep, Galliard’s brow is still drawn down, and he keeps his arms crossed tightly, defensively across his chest. Reiner wonders who hurt him, who made him so closed off and afraid of showing emotion, and then realizes he’s not much better off himself. Here he is, gawking at a sleeping guy and practically caressing his ankle, and yet he doesn’t even know Galliard’s first name.

Reiner manages to watch the game for a whole three minutes after that realization before he gives up completely and shifts, turning his torso so he’s facing Galliard. Galliard has relaxed a little, his arms no longer so tight across his chest, and Reiner wonders why he didn’t go and take the bed. He could have, Reiner would have let him! He could spend the night if he wanted to; they wouldn’t even have to have sex, although Reiner would certainly be willing to put out if asked. It’s been so long since Reiner has shared a bed with anyone…

Reiner’s mind drifts into a pleasant little daydream as he watches Galliard’s sleeping face, his eyes going soft and unfocused: he imagines waking up on a Saturday morning, and rolling over to find Galliard beside him. He’d put out his hand and touch Galliard’s shoulder, and Galliard would turn around, his face scrunched with sleep and cranky, and mutter something about five more minutes. Reiner would laugh, and then scoot closer on the bed, wrapping his arms around Galliard and drawing him close to his chest. Galliard would protest at first, his words adorably mush-mouthed with sleep, but then he’d curl into Reiner’s chest, tucking his head under Reiner’s chin and using his chest as a pillow. Reiner would just hold him then, and let him sleep, doing nothing to disturb him except petting his hair and smoothing out its sleepy cowlicks, and feel Galliard’s breath across his chest muscles. Eventually, thirty minutes or so later, Galliard would start to wake up, and he’d kiss Reiner’s chest, his arms coming up to wrap around Reiner’s neck, and Reiner would roll over onto his back, pulling Galliard with him and up onto his chest. And then they’d laugh together, and Galliard would smile at him, and there’d be nothing false or bitter or angry about it, and he’d stretch forward to run his lips along the underside of Reiner’s jaw, getting closer and closer to his mouth, and…

And Reiner realizes he’s looking at Galliard’s slack, slightly open mouth, and that Galliard is starting to drool a little in his sleep, and Reiner chuckles to himself and shakes his head. If this were Jean, there’d be a puddle of drool all over the couch by now, but with Galliard it’s just a little bit.

It’s also been about forty five minutes, and, not realizing that he’d just thought of Jean and the memory hadn’t felt like being vivisected with rusty razorblades, Reiner gives Galliard’s ankle a gentle shake. “Galliard. Galliard, wake up.”

Galliard grunts, his arms tightening over his chest again, and he rolls over so his face is towards the back of the couch, making Reiner scramble to avoid getting kicked in the groin. Thank god he was already holding Galliard’s ankle, or he _would_ have gotten kicked. “Come on, you told me to wake you up.”

“Five more minutes,” Galliard mumbles, and it’s so close to Reiner’s fantasy that he lets him sleep another ten minutes. Besides, from this angle he gets to admire Galliard’s butt, and how the fabric of his jeans have pulled tight across it.

It’s a very nice butt. _Someone_ never skips Leg Day.

“Galliard. Galliard, come on, wake up.” Reiner is met with more grunts and Galliard trying to curl into a ball. “You can stay if you want to, but you should go to the bedroom. You’re going to fall off the couch if you keep doing that.”

“Uuuuuugh!” Finally, with what seems like a mighty effort, Galliard throws his legs off the couch and uses the momentum to pull the rest of himself into a seated position. He wipes off his chin with the palm of his hand and squints at Reiner through sleep-puffed eyes. “What time’s it?”

Reiner checks his watch. “Around six o’clock.”

“Dammit.” Galliard pushes himself up and starts staggering towards the door, and Reiner gets up to hurry after him.

“You can stay if you want to.” It bears repeating; maybe Galliard didn’t hear him the first time? “If you don’t have to do anything else tonight, I mean.”

Galliard has paused at the kitchen table, and he grunts as he grabs a couple of apples out of the fruit bowl and stuff them in his backpack alongside his economics textbook. “Can’t.”

Reiner assumes Galliard is just going to leave it at that, but then he glances up and looks Reiner in the eye, and his disappointment must be writ large across his face, because Galliard huffs a little and explains as he’s zipping up his bag. “I have a dog. I need to go home and take him outside.”

“You have a dog?” All is instantly forgiven. “What kind is he? How long have you had him? What’s his name?”

Galliard looks startled, then snickers under his breath. “You like dogs, huh?”

“I love dogs.” It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Reiner has wanted a dog his entire life. He’d been planning to get one several months ago, but then that idea had faded away like so many other things from that time, and his apartment remains sterile and dogless.

“He’s a yellow lab and his name is Sarge.”

Reiner is in love already. “Do you want to bring him here sometime? I don’t mind.”

Galliard’s brows lower, like he’s questioning if _he_ wants to come back, and Reiner worries that he’s pushed too far. Then Galliard pulls his bag onto one shoulder and shrugs. “I’ll see you at the gym tomorrow.”

“Okay.” That’s the best he’s going to get, and Reiner is going to be happy for it. He follows Galliard to the door to close it behind him, and gestures to his bag with one hand. “Let me know how your next test goes, will you? And I can answer any other questions you have.”

“If I fail it, I’m blaming you.” It takes Reiner a moment to realize Galliard is almost joking, and he feels the corner of his mouth quirk up. Galliard must notice it too, because his own mouth twitches at the edges. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look as stressed as he did when he came in either, and Reiner is going to count that as a win.

“Later.” Before he leaves, Galliard reaches out and squeezes Reiner’s bicep, and then he’s out the door and gone, and it isn’t until much later that Reiner wonders how he talked his way past the doorman in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick question for all you readers: I'm thinking about taking a break from the main action next week and doing a flashback chapter, narrated by Pieck, about how she and Galliard met. Would you be interested in that? After last week, our best girl needs some love.
> 
> Please let me know, and, as always, thanks for reading and for all your support and encouragement!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys train, study, and discover other activities they can enjoy together.
> 
> Uh, don't read this one at work or school.

It’s Wednesday again, and Galliard waits at the front desk at the gym. He feels _almost_ well-rested, thanks to the nap he took yesterday, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, twitchy with rare nervous energy.

“What’s got you so wound up?” Hannah is watching him suspiciously, her hands hovering over her keyboard. 

“I’m not wound up.”

“You _are_. You’re…” she waves a hand as she searches for the right word. “You’re _happy_.”

Galliard flashes her what he hopes is a dangerous, sharklike grin. “Happy that I’m making more paperwork for you.”

She rolls her eyes but turns back to her computer screen, and Galliard looks back towards the doors and forces himself to stop bouncing.

_Is_ he happy? It’s a question Galliard never asks himself, because the answer is dangerous; he remembers being happy, once, and how everything came crashing down around him, and he’s not going to expose himself to that kind of vulnerability again. He _can’t_ be vulnerable like that again, not now, not ever.

But there’s no denying that he’s doing _better_ right now. With two regular clients and two more considering regular sessions, he’s getting better money from the gym, and doesn’t have to spend every waking hour here. There’s also a deep, atavistic satisfaction in watching Michelle hand over larger paychecks, her brow admirably wavering towards wrinkles despite all her Botox as she tries to figure out how he did it. That’s almost as great as having an actual _schedule_ , one that he can organize other things around, and Galliard had discovered yesterday that he’d actually had _free_ time. 

Time which he’d spent figuring out economics better, and never mind that he’d had to go to Reiner thirstiest-bitch Braun’s place to do so.

“Now you’re _smiling_. Stop it, it’s creepy.”

Galliard narrows his eyes and glares at Hannah, who looks at him serenely from behind the protection of her computer. He hadn’t been smiling, had he? No, he definitely hadn’t. She’s just saying that to get a rise out of him.

Then the door opens, letting in a gush of chilly spring air, and Galliard turns to see Reiner walking in, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, and then Galliard _does_ smile, his big fake gym smile, and ignores how it rests a little easier, a little more naturally, on his face than usual.

~*~

Reiner is, as always, a diligent and conscientious client, and after only three sessions, Galliard is already starting to see improvements. Reiner just has one of those bodies that packs on muscle with very little encouragement, and Galliard finds himself having to consciously _not_ think about how Reiner’s pecs are flexing when he spots him on the bench press. He has to ignore how Reiner’s calves flare out so widely halfway up his leg, or how Reiner’s shoulders are broad enough that he almost has to turn sideways to fit through a door.

More than anything, though, he has to ignore the way Reiner’s ass pulls his shorts taut when he’s doing squats, and the way his thighs flex, the muscles bulging and heavy with power, and Galliard has to force himself to look away.

Of course, that’s when Reiner has to open his stupid, incredibly talented mouth. “Do you want to come over after this?”

The truth is, Galliard _does_ want to come over; he likes Reiner’s apartment, so much larger and brighter and more luxurious than his own. It’s quiet there, and calm, and Galliard was able to nap on the couch and wake up without Reiner groping him or doing anything creepy while he slept. Sure, he’d put his hand on Galliard’s ankle, but that’s a pretty safe, innocuous place to touch, and there had been something weirdly comforting about the weight of his hand when Galliard had woken up. 

He’d woken up last night, almost tossing off his futon and onto Sarge, and remembered scattered fragments of a dream where Reiner had been putting a lot more than the weight of one hand on him, but a quick, icy shower had washed those fragments right down the drain.

“Can’t.” As soon as he says it, Galliard notices a faint, almost imperceptible droop to Reiner’s shoulders, and even though he _knows_ he could leave it there, that he doesn’t owe Reiner _anything_ , he keeps going. “I’ve got a shift at Starbucks after this.”

“Oh. Okay.” Reiner straightens up, the muscles in his back and ass rippling with exertion, and Galliard hastens to help him get the barbell back on the rack. Then, as Reiner is turning around and Galliard catches a glimpse of the side of his face and those artfully carved cheekbones, his damn fool mouth just keeps going.

“I’ve got some time after my class tomorrow.” Which he really doesn’t, he has to go home and walk Sarge, but damn if Reiner doesn’t visibly brighten at that, like he actually enjoys spending time with Galliard and will be happy to see him, and Galliard squashes those thoughts for the traitorous liars that they are. “If I keep fucking up Econ, I can come blame you.”

“You’re still having trouble?”

He’s so goddamn earnest, he’s going to be the death of Galliard.

“I haven’t had the class again yet, I don’t know.”

“Oh.” And then Reiner laughs at himself and runs a hand through his hair, looking impossibly boyish and handsome for a moment, and Galliard has to look away when he feels the corners of his mouth twitching. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Well, _think_ next time!” Then, not heeding his own advice, Galliard reaches out and playfully punches Reiner’s shoulder, and Reiner looks at him like Galliard has just asked him for his hand in marriage.

~*~

Thursday dawns bright and cold, and Sarge moves slower than usual during their morning walk, the chill in the air making his joints ache. Galliard gives him an extra aspirin before leaving for the day, and watches the sun come up through the skyline as he rides the bus to work. Sometimes, at moments like this, when everything is still and scarcely breathing, when the city is just waking up and all sound is muffled, Galliard can still find Trost beautiful.

The morning passes uneventfully, although Pieck comes in to grab a cup of tea and say hello. She arrives just as Galliard’s shift is ending and he’s getting ready to leave for his class, and accompanies him across the campus. They chat about nothing of consequence, and Galliard doesn’t notice the way Pieck is watching him from under her dark fall of hair, her eyes watchful and amused.

“Do you need me to stop in and walk Sarge today?”

Galliard thinks about that for a moment: does he? He has time to run home after class and take Sarge for a quick walk, but then he has to get back to the gym and do a training session with a client who’s still thinking about making their arrangement permanent, and if he has to do some serious schmoozing afterwards, Sarge might be waiting for awhile.

“I… wait. No.” Reiner lives close to the gym, and practically wet himself when he found out Galliard has a dog. He said Galliard could bring Sarge by any time, and he also said he wanted to know how Galliard did in his class. And, if Galliard is being honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind seeing Reiner today, if for no other reason than his fruit bowl is always full and his couch is great for grabbing a nap.

Yes, he’ll pick up Sarge after class and take him to Reiner’s apartment. Then Sarge can fart and drool in the lap of luxury while Galliard goes to his session, and if Reiner thought Galliard had a nicer, younger dog, then that’s just too bad for him.

“No.” Galliard shakes his head. “I’ll take him with me.”

“To the gym?” 

“No, ah… somewhere else.”

“Right.” She nods, and Galliard frowns when he notices her smile for the first time. “Just… somewhere else.”

“Yes.” Galliard straightens his spine and refuses to acknowledge Pieck’s amused expression, or give her any more details. Not if she’s going to be like _that_.

~*~

Sarge is excited to be taking a longer walk, and to be going down into the subway. Galliard would prefer to not take him on the subway, but he’ll fall if he’s taken on a bus, and a taxi or an Uber is completely out of the question.

“It’s only a few stops,” Galliard tells Sarge as they wait on the platform. “And his building has a ramp. I checked.”

Sarge sniffs at a McDonald’s wrapper someone dropped and wags his tail, beating Galliard’s shins with it.

Sarge rides the subway like a champ, and even submits to some petting by a curious child who makes her way over to him before Galliard can block for him. Little kids are _fast_ , but this is a gentle one, and she very carefully pets Sarge’s ears before saying thank you, informing Sarge that her name is Zophia, and then going back to her mother.

The doorman at Reiner’s building opens the door for them, and Galliard braces himself to talk his way into the building again, but no one attempts to stop him, even with his ancient, smelly companion. It isn’t until they’re in the elevator that Galliard realizes Reiner must have told the doorman to just let him in, and Galliard hates how that thought makes his cheeks heat up and something warm and unfamiliar curl in his gut.

The elevator stops, and Galliard walks Sarge down the hall to the rapidly-becoming familiar door; the dog is starting to flag, reaching the end of his energy reserves, and Galliard is glad he grabbed some dog food and Sarge’s aspirin before he left. “Reiner will have some cheese for you,” he tells the heavily panting dog. “Probably fancy gourmet shit, too.”

He knocks on the door much more softly than normal, but Reiner answers right away, and Galliard gets the sudden impression that he’d been waiting for them, lingering close to the door and waiting for the sound of knocking. That shouldn’t please him as much as it does, anymore than the sight of Reiner’s face lighting up and the way he immediately drops to one knee to pet Sarge should make that warm thing flip over in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello, good boy!” Reiner offers his hands for Sarge to sniff, and as soon as the dog does, he’s petting him and looking delighted, the years dropping away from his face and making him look almost boyish. For the first time, Galliard believes that Reiner might actually be close to his own age, and not at least fifteen to twenty years older and lying on his gym intake forms. “Hello, good dog! It’s so nice to meet you, Sarge!”

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too,” Galliard deadpans, and Reiner grins up at him in a way that almost makes him likable.

“Come on in.” He rises to his feet and stands aside, and Sarge surprises Galliard by padding right inside. “How did your class go?”

“Better.” It had gone incredibly; for the first time all semester, Galliard had felt like he’d actually gotten a glimmer of what the professor was talking about, and had been able to follow most of the lecture. “I still have some questions.”

“Sure.” Reiner gestures towards his kitchen table, and Galliard unclips Sarge’s leash, leaving him to wander the apartment, before going to settling down. He’s pleased to see that Reiner’s fruit bowl is restocked, and he dives right in, digging out an apple and two bananas. There’s something purple and leafy in there, and he picks it up and looks at it dubiously before putting it back.

“It’s a dragon fruit.” Reiner sits down across from him, watching Sarge with a completely sappy expression as the dog explores the living room, sniffing at all the corners and probably shedding everywhere. “I was going to cut it up later if you want to try it.”

Galliard puts it back without a word, vaguely ashamed and angry that he didn’t know what it was, and brusquely gets his book out of his bag, flopping it open to a marked page. “Explain this.”

~*~

This is a great day to be Reiner Braun. Galliard has made an appearance for the third day in a row, _and_ he brought his dog. Reiner sits at the kitchen table with him and explains economics again, but he’s distracted and he knows it; he’s happy to help with Galliard’s education, but he really wants to get down on the floor and play with Sarge.

Not that he thinks Sarge will do a lot of playing; the dog is far older than Reiner had pictured, his fur grizzled and more gray than yellow, his face completely white, his movements slow and ponderous, his eyes clouded with cataracts and his hearing none too good anymore either. There’s nothing wrong with his nose or curiosity, though, and Sarge thoroughly, if laboriously, explores the living room before flopping down in a patch of sunshine near the window.

Reiner whips out his phone as Galliard works on an economics equation, and finds a big, squashy dog bed on Amazon. He uses his Prime account to order it for next day delivery, and then looks up to see Galliard looking at his dog and frowning. Reiner is about to ask what’s wrong when Galliard gets up and pulls a cushion off the couch. He crouches next to his dog and very gently coaxes him into laying on it, and Reiner is deeply touched by the little scene.

Galliard glares when he stands up and comes back to the table. “He’s old. He can’t lay right on the floor like that.”

“He can lay on the couch if he wants to.”

Galliard glances at Sarge, obviously considering it, then shakes his head. “He might hurt himself if he tried to get off it in a hurry.”

“Hold on.” Reiner stands and goes into his bedroom, where he digs around in his closet and returns with an armload of winter quilts and heavy blankets. He offers them to Galliard. “Here. Make him a nest.”

There’s a moment where Galliard’s eyes glimmer, and his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he simply nods and takes the blankets, carrying them to his dog. Reiner follows, and Sarge pants happily and lets Galliard shift him around as they work together to make him a comfortable, padded nest to lay on. Galliard keeps at it for several minutes, not satisfied until the dog is practically festooned in warmth and comfort, and Reiner eventually moves to Sarge’s head, lightly petting his ears and taking orders as Galliard moves and fusses. It’s glaringly apparent how much he loves his dog, his love bleeding through with every gesture, every soft word he says, every tender, coaxing pat when he needs Sarge to move a little. It’s something Reiner never thought he’d see from Galliard, but damn if it isn’t a good look on him.

“How long have you had him?” Sarge’s head is in Reiner’s lap as Galliard works on making a pad for his back legs, and Reiner plays with the leathery tips of Sarge’s floppy ears. The dog is drooling on his pants, but that’s okay. 

Galliard glances up, then focuses on what he was doing again. “He’s not mine.”

“What?” Reiner knows his mouth is hanging out stupidly, but he can’t help it. Not Galliard’s? Did Reiner misunderstand him?

“He’s not mine.” Galliard strokes one of Sarge’s back legs, and the dog shifts it so he can slide a blanket underneath it. “I mean, I guess he’s mine now. But he wasn’t always.”

Reiner starts to ask who Sarge belonged to before, but something about the way Galliard’s jaw is set stops him; the muscles through Galliard’s face are tense, drawn and rigid, and Reiner knows that when he looks like that, he either won’t answer at all or will give a short, brusque answer that leaves more questions in its wake. Worst of all, he might shut down completely and leave, and Reiner wants Galliard and Sarge to stay.  
He changes tact. “How old is he?”

“He’ll be seventeen this fall.”

“Really?” A second shocking revelation in as many minutes. “He’s in such good shape!”

“Yeah.” A quick flash of pride on Galliard’s face, there and then gone. “I’ve known him since I was eight.” He tucks a pillow in under Sarge’s haunches and rocks back on his heels, apparently satisfied with his work. Then a soft alarm chimes from his pocket, and Galliard curses under his breath before turning it off.

“Gotta go. Two sessions at the gym.” He reaches out to pat Sarge’s head, and Reiner moves his hands out of the way. Sarge looks back over his shoulder, wagging his tail at Galliard’s attention, and manages to lick Galliard’s fingers before settling his nose on his paws and heaving a great sigh as he closes his eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too.” Galliard shakes his head and stands up. From his higher vantage point, he pins Reiner with an intense, solemn gaze. “Don’t bother him while he’s sleeping. Let him rest.”

“All right.” Reiner reluctantly shifts Sarge’s head onto a pillow and gets up himself. 

Galliard walks to the table and digs in his bag, pulling out a small bottle of store-brand baby aspirin and handing it to Reiner. “Give him two of these in a block of cheese at 5:30, then take him for a walk at six. He’ll probably only need to go around the block so he can pee.”

Reiner nods, taking the bottle like the holy relic that it is, fighting hard to keep a slow, disbelieving smile from spreading across his face. “You’re coming back later?”

“ _Obviously_.” Galliard gives him a withering look over his shoulder as he goes to the closet to get his jacket. While he’s in there, he selects one of Reiner’s scarves—dark plaid and cashmere blend, one Reiner doesn’t wear often—and wraps it around his neck. “I’m not _giving_ you Sarge!”

“Okay.” Reiner follows Galliard to the door, stopping when he gets too close and Galliard shoots him a warning look. “I’ll take good care of him while you’re gone.”

“You better.” Another quick squeeze to Reiner’s bicep, this one a little more lingering than the last, and then Galliard is gone.

Reiner shuts the door quietly behind him, and turns back to the snoozing dog. “Looks like it’s just you and me for awhile, buddy.”

~*~

Galliard is riding the subway back to Reiner’s apartment when he realizes that the scarf he’s wearing both blocks out the chilly air better than anything else that he owns, and that it smells like Reiner. Even though it was tucked away in the back of the closet, and is really more of a winter scarf than a spring one, it still carries the lingering odor of Reiner’s cologne, that tantalizing, woody fragrance that Galliard can’t place, and another, more subtle scent that is uniquely Reiner. Galliard glances around the train car, making sure no one is watching him, before dropping his chin down so the scarf rides up over the lower half of his face, and inhales deeply. Reiner’s scent fills his nose, and Galliard sighs.

The doorman opens the door for him again, and Galliard shares the elevator with a startlingly beautiful blonde woman who looks achingly familiar and keeps watching him from under her long eyelashes. Galliard adjusts the scarf to better hide his face, and the woman looks away. The elevator stops and she gets off on the fourteenth floor, and Galliard breathes a sigh of relief as he rides the rest of the way to Reiner’s floor.

There’s a Post-It on the door that says IT’S OPEN, and Galliard is both appalled and a little amazed at such a brazen display of confidence. Of course, this isn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where you need to keep your door locked, but still, he can’t imagine _announcing_ vulnerabilities in such a way.

He lets himself in, and makes sure the door is locked when he closes it. “You’ve got some weird neighbors.”

“Oh?” Reiner’s voice floats in from the living room. “Who did you meet?”

“Some lady on the elevator, she wouldn’t stop…” _looking at me_ , but that part never comes out. Galliard has walked into the living room, untying the scarf from around his neck, and he’s treated to the sight of Reiner and Sarge on the couch. Sarge is sprawled out beside Reiner, his head on Reiner’s thigh, and he’s rolled over onto his back, his legs in the air and his belly on display, and Reiner is caught in mid-scratch. Galliard stops dead in his tracks and just stares.

Reiner has the decency to look embarrassed. “I gave him his aspirin and then we went for a walk. He did his business—both businesses!—and then when we came back up here, he wanted to get on the couch. I know you said not to let him, but I picked him up and then stayed here with him, and we’ve just been hanging out and waiting for you to get back…” Reiner trails off, uncertain, and Galliard shakes his head.

“You huge slut.”

Reiner’s brow furrows a little. “Are you talking to me or the dog?”

“Both of you.”

Reiner actually looks a little offended. “It’s not Sarge’s fault! I’m the one that put him on the couch!”

“And he’s the one that rolled over and showed you his belly!” Sarge does that for anyone who pets him enough, but Reiner doesn’t need to know that. Galliard takes off the scarf and his jacket and turns to put them in the closet. “Get off the couch, dog.”

There’s a moment of silence behind him, and then a sliding sound and a thump. When Galliard turns around, Sarge is still laying in comfort on the couch, but Reiner is sitting on the floor, watching him expectantly.

Galliard is taken aback for a moment; he hadn’t expected such ready compliance, nor the naked need in Reiner’s eyes. It’s a heady feeling, having someone so willing and eager to do as he says, having so much _control_ , and Galliard finds himself, almost unconsciously, cocking his hip to the side, slipping into Jaws, adopting his body language and hearty, easy bravado.

“Well.” That comes out in a drawl, and Galliard doesn’t immediately move to correct it. No; if Reiner wants this, then he’s going to give it to him, and he’s going to give it to him in the most country way possible. Fancy rich Yankee boy is going to get what’s coming to him, and Galliard saunters forward. “Well, well, well… look at what we’ve got here.”

Reiner tilts his head back when Galliard gets close, his eyes wide and shining, and when Galliard moves his leg to plant a foot between his legs, Reiner immediately spreads his thighs, then hisses softly as Galliard presses his foot down over his crotch. Galliard can feel that Reiner is already half-hard, and he’s quietly grateful that he took his boots off; he wants to torment Reiner, not _hurt_ him.

“Look at you. Just _look_ at you.” Galliard pushes some of weight forward, bending his knee and leaning over it, and Reiner’s eyelids flutter as he moans quietly. “Were you just waiting for me to come back and stick it to you?”

Reiner’s eyes are partially closed, his breath rapidly in his throat, but he surprises Galliard by shaking his head. “No.”

“No?” Galliard is a little offended, and leans more of his weight onto his foot. Reiner is getting harder every moment, his erection fitting into the arch of Galliard’s foot. “What do you mean, _no_?”

“Wasn’t waiting for it.” Reiner opens his eyes then, and there’s blatant, naked desire there, so much that Galliard almost takes a step back. “Was really _hoping_ , but I wasn’t waiting.”

It’s an elegant, ego-stroking answer, and Galliard lets a bark of laughter escape before he can catch himself. “All right, then.” He lifts his foot, and Reiner whimpers. “Why don’t you get on your hands and knees and show me what you’ve got?”

Reiner turns around in a hurry, bracing his hands on the couch and rising to his knees, his ass rising delectably into the air, and Galliard’s pulse picks up. He could get used to this. He could get really, really used to this.

He drops to his knees behind Reiner, and takes a moment to admire his sweatpants-clad ass. It’s not his first time getting a look at it, but it’s always been at the gym before, where he can’t _really_ look, and even the occasionally tantalizing glimpse in the showers aren’t as good as this right here. This is some grade A beefcake on display for him, and Reiner hasn’t even dropped his pants yet.

A problem that needs to be rectified at once. “What, you expect me to pull these down myself?”

Reiner murmurs an apology and rests his chest on the couch, freeing his hands to shove down both his pants and his underwear, exposing one of the finest, juiciest asses Galliard has ever seen. It’s plump and shapely without having an ounce of fat on it, covered in fine, golden peach fuzz, and Galliard has a moment of professional, completely nonsexual pride: those new squats are really working out for Reiner. He lifts both hands and grasps the sides of Reiner’s ass, and his skin is warm and pliant under Galliard’s hands.

He gives Reiner’s ass a tentative squeeze, and when Reiner responds with a quiet groan, Galliard grows more bold, his squeezes turning into groping, his hands roaming all over Reiner’s backside and down the backs of his thighs. Reiner props his arms on the couch and leans his head into them, making quiet, encouraging noises and pushing his ass back into Galliard’s hands whenever and wherever Galliard touches him.

Galliard lets his hands trail further down, cupping under the sweet curve of Reiner’s cheeks, running his thumbs up along Reiner’s crack before moving his hands out, spreading Reiner’s cheeks and putting him on display. With Reiner’s pale skin, his hole is pink and soft-looking, the skin around it velvety and inviting, and when Galliard runs the pad of his thumb over it, Reiner groans and his hole twitches, winking back at Galliard. Reiner pushes his hips back, nearly shoving his entire ass into Galliard’s face, and Galliard catches a hint of that scent again, Reiner’s unique aroma, stronger and muskier here, but unmistakably Reiner.

Galliard licks his lips, his eyes riveted on Reiner’s welcoming, high class hole, and he starts leaning forward, his own breath matching pace with Reiner’s panting, his heart thundering in his chest and his cock rock hard in his pants…

And then something wet and stinky swipes broadly across his ear.

“Sarge!” The spell is broken, and Galliard rocks back on his heels, letting go of Reiner’s ass to wipe his sleeve over his ear. Reiner lifts his head, his eyes fluttering open, and they both look at the couch next to them.

Sarge has rolled over onto his belly and crawled close to them, and is panting happily and looking back and forth between them, his tail wagging hard and beating against the couch cushions. Reiner takes one look at the dog and then bursts into good-natured, rueful laughter, and Galliard just sighs.

“You’re both impossible.”

“C’mere, buddy.” Reiner hitches up his pants and stands, wrapping both arms around Sarge and lifting him off the couch, lowering him to the floor and waiting until Sarge has his feet under him to let go. Sarge makes a beeline for Galliard and starts trying to lick Galliard’s face, efforts which Galliard only partially fends off.

“You bad dog.” He can’t stay mad at Sarge for long, though, and Galliard scratches behind his ears. “Go sleep on your nest.” The pile of blankets is still over by the window, and after a little more attention, Sarge wanders over to it and gets comfortable again.

Galliard turns his attention back to Reiner, who is still standing and sporting a massive, frankly intimidating erection through sweatpants that probably cost more than Galliard spends in a week on food. Galliard stands too, striding right over to Reiner and getting into his space, tilting his head back to meet his eyes.

“You think I’m done with you yet?” Galliard reaches around Reiner and grabs his ass, getting a full handful and squeezing tight. Reiner swallows, his pupils blowing wide, and nods.

Galliard lets him sweat it out a moment or two longer before letting go and giving Reiner’s ass a swift, open-handed swat, the sound echoing through the apartment. “Then go get yourself cleaned up. And I mean _clean_.”

Reiner swallows and nods. “That’ll take a few minutes…”

“Best get started now, then.”

Reiner nods and disappears, walking to the bathroom in a wide-legged waddle to accommodate his erection.

As soon as he’s gone, the bathroom door shutting behind him, Galliard staggers to the couch and collapses, his face in his hands. What is he _doing_? How long does he expect to be able to keep this up? How long before Reiner figures out what Galliard is, and kicks him completely out of his life?

From across the room, Galliard hears shuffling, and he lifts his head. “It’s okay, boy. Don’t get up.” 

Sarge settles back into his nest, and Galliard slowly stands up. Okay. He can do this. He _wants_ to do this! Anyone who’d turn down a chance at that sweet ass is an idiot, especially if this is the only time Galliard might ever get a crack at it. But not out here, not in the living room. It feels weird to have Sarge watch.

Galliard washes his face in the kitchen sink, getting the smelly dog drool off himself, then strips down quickly and efficiently, hiding his tattered and ancient underwear in the leg of his jeans before folding them and leaving them on the couch. He walks naked into Reiner’s room and perches on the edge of the bed, opening a drawer in the nightstand and digging through it for condoms and lube. He finds both, along with a few sex toys that he takes note of but leaves alone, and leaves them on the nightstand.

There’s not much else he can do to prepare, so Galliard makes himself comfortable on the bed, which is, by his estimation, fucking enormous. He can’t imagine sleeping on a bed this big every night, can’t imagine having this much room to spread out or having sheets this smooth and silky, and Galliard knows that if he lays down, he’s going to fall asleep. Part of him considers it, since making Reiner wait is something Reiner apparently enjoys, but that’d be a waste of a clean ass, and Galliard isn’t going to squander something like that.

Across the apartment, Galliard can hear a toilet flush and then the bathroom door open, and he positions himself at the head of the bed, his arms thrown back along the headboard and his own cock prominently displayed. Reiner appears in the doorway a few moments later, still naked, still erect, and for a second he’s so handsome and magnificent that he takes Galliard’s breath away.

Focus, Galliard. _Concentrate_. He just wants to fuck, he doesn’t want _you_ to be his boyfriend and rub your back and ask about your day!

Galliard lifts his chin and gestures towards the foot of the bed. “Get over here.”

Reiner clambers onto the bed, and he’s so excited and eager for it that it knocks away some of Galliard’s nervousness, and he sits forward, tucking his legs underneath himself. “Well? Are you clean?”

Reiner nods, his gaze getting away from him as he glances at Galliard’s cock and then back to his face. “I’m flushed out.”

“Good.” Galliard moves to the side. “Lay down on your stomach, but keep that ass in the air.”

Reiner does, falling forward onto his face but then pushing up onto his knees, and Galliard positions himself between his legs. There’s still some water beaded on the back of Reiner’s thighs, caught in the fine hair there, and Galliard leans in, wiping it away with his tongue. Reiner’s skin tastes clean and soapy under his tongue, and when he gets to the curve of an asscheek, Galliard nips at it, making Reiner jump and then moan.

“You like that, huh? You like getting gnawed on?” Reiner gasps in the affirmative, and Galliard scoots closer, peppering both of Reiner’s cheeks with quick, nipping bites. At the same time, he runs both thumbs up the crack of Reiner’s ass and spreads it wide, exposing him to the air. Galliard thinks about diving in, about eating the hell out of that ass, but ends up giving Reiner an extra hard bite, one hard enough to bruise, instead, and then sits back up to get a better look.

Reiner has both hands splayed out on the mattress, his head turned to the side and both eyes closed, his mouth open as he breathes through it. There’s such a look of bliss and perfect relaxation on his face that Galliard is, for a moment, almost jealous of him; he can’t remember the last time he was able to let go so completely. Galliard lifts a hand and runs it up the length of Reiner’s spine, feeling Reiner’s muscles ripple and contract under his palm, and Reiner opens one eye to look up at him.

“Give me the lube.”

Reiner scrambles out, grabbing the lube and condoms, and hands them back. Galliard takes them wordlessly, drops them on the mattress beside his knee, and delivers a stinging slap to Reiner’s asscheek. Reiner yelps, the cry immediately wavering downward into a moan, and closes his eyes again, pushing his rear higher in the air and shuffling his knees a little further apart.

“Look at you, you little pain slut. Look at you, spreading out for me and begging for it.” Reiner makes a muffled sound against the sheets before stretching one hand back and grasping his own asscheek, pulling it to the side to expose himself. It’s unexpected, but Galliard isn’t going to complain. He uncaps the lube and pours a little over Reiner’s winking, eager hole. “You probably do this for all the boys, don’t you?”

Reiner shakes his head, and his answer is muffled but perfectly clear. “Just you.”

_Just you_. It’s almost certainly a lie, but Galliard is glad Reiner’s eyes are closed, and that he can’t see the way those words make Galliard’s cheeks and ears heat up and bloom pink. It’s a lie, but it’s a pretty one, one that Galliard wishes he could believe, and he bends forward to brush his lips across Reiner’s asscheek. He follows it with another slap, and then starts probing at his hole with one finger. Reiner’s flesh gives way easily, letting Galliard slip his index finger inside him, and Reiner is hot and pulsing around him.

“That’s right, you just open up yourself for me. Show me everything you’ve got.” It’s clearly been awhile for Reiner; he might be relaxed and ready for it, but his muscles are tight and tense with disuse, his ring opening up slowly. Galliard pumps one finger in and out of him, deliberately moving it to get the sloppiest, wettest sounds he can. “Listen to that wet ass. You’re sloppy back there, rich boy, sloppy as hell.”

Reiner murmurs assent and cocks his hips upward, and Galliard pushes another finger inside him, then another. He fucks Reiner with his hand, knowing he should go slower but also knowing they’re both thirsty and desperate for it. Reiner isn’t complaining, either way, and even bucks his hips backwards, grinding down on Galliard’s hand and forcing it inside himself up to the knuckles.

“Please…”

It’s that breathy little request that does it. Galliard pulls his fingers free and wipes the excess lube on them on the back of Reiner’s thigh. “You ready for it? You ready to get wrecked?”

Reiner nods, his face buried in the sheets, and Galliard hurries to get a condom on himself. Once he’s sheathed and lubed up, he looks at the bottle of lube for a moment, then shrugs and guides the tip of the bottle into Reiner’s ass. He gives it a good squeeze, and while some of it bubbles out around the edges, most of it pours directly down Reiner’s asshole, making Reiner whine high in his throat and shudder all over.

“Got to get you ready in there.” Galliard pulls the bottle out and tosses it aside, bracing one hand on Reiner’s ass to pull it wide, using the other to prop up his cock and guide it towards Reiner’s hole. He doesn’t thrust in right away, circling Reiner’s entrance a few times first, deliberately teasing until Reiner whines again and pushes back, his body opening and engulfing the tip of Galliard’s cock before he can pull away.

“Thirsty little bitch.” Galliard guides the head of his cock in before letting go and gripping Reiner’s hips with both hands. “Thirstiest little bitch.”

He waits to watch Reiner’s nod, and then Galliard pushes the rest of the way in, all at once.

He’d normally be a little more gentle, but he never much gets the impression that that isn’t what Reiner wants. He’s not wrong, either; Reiner gasps and then shifts backwards underneath him, groaning as Galliard sinks in all the way, and Galliard clutches at Reiner’s hips to keep from being pushed backwards and off the bed.

“You like that, don’t you? Little cockslut. Hungry little cockslut.”

“God, _yes_ …” Reiner has grabbed his sheet in both hands, wadding it up and tugging it downwards, unmaking the bed. “Oh god, _Galliard_ …”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Galliard jerks his hips back and forth a few times, his own eyelids fluttering at the friction along his length. It’s been awhile for him too, and Reiner is deliciously tight and hot around him. “That’s right, you thirsty bitch. _My_ thirsty bitch…”

Reiner grunts and props himself up on his hands, only so he can reach back between his legs and grab his cock. Galliard can’t see what’s going on down there, but he can feel Reiner jerking himself off. “ _Yours_ …”

Fuck. _Fuck_ , that’s a lot more intimate than Galliard was planning on getting today, and he swats Reiner’s ass again, just to remind him who’s boss, before taking hold of him on his hips and riding him towards the finish line.

Galliard doesn’t last as long as he normally does, too keyed up and on edge after a long dry spell, but Reiner doesn’t either. He can tell by the way Reiner’s back moves, by the way his muscles stretch and flex, that he’s starting to get close after only a few moments, and Galliard lets go of his hips, reaching out to plant both hands on Reiner’s shoulders and driving him straight into the mattress. Reiner collapses onto the mattress but his hips and ass lifted, and Galliard braces himself on Reiner’s shoulders—Reiner’s broad, magnificently powerful shoulders—and thrusts as hard as he can. From this angle, he can’t go terribly deep but can manage short, quick, powerful thrusts that are probably hammering right on Reiner’s prostate, and he goes for it.

Reiner whines underneath him, and Galliard can feel his muscles start to tighten up, his ass getting ready for the explosion coming from the front. He pushes down harder, pinning Reiner to the mattress, and then leans forward, close enough for his chest to touch Reiner’s back, for his breath to whisper across Reiner’s ear.

“C’mon, cockslut. Come for me.” Galliard punctuates his words with rolls of his hips, his own orgasm imminent, his gut coiled taut and ready, his balls aching and drawn close to his body. “Blow your load for me, you thirsty little cockslut bitch…”

Apparently that’s all the encouragement Reiner needs; with a sound that’s almost a wail, he erupts, his ass muscles clenching down hard on Galliard, and Galliard has to stop and fight against his own load for a moment or two until Reiner releases him. Then he thrusts once, twice more, sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, before he tips over the edge and spills into his condom, his hands clawing at Reiner’s shoulders, gripping tight the muscles there, sliding a little across Reiner’s sweat-damp skin. 

It’s easily the most intense orgasm Galliard has ever had, and that’s something he knows he’ll be thinking about in the future, late at night on his futon with Sarge snoozing on the floor beside him.

Galliard waits until he’s sure he’s done, then sits back and pulls out. The condom dangles off his cock, so full it almost pulled off, and Galliard makes a soft sound of distaste as he pulls it off and ties the end closed before dropping it into a wastebasket beside the bed.

Reiner is laying still and content on the bed, his face in his crossed arms, his breathing slowing down as lube trickles down his thighs. He somehow manages to look disheveled and elegant and completely fucked out, all at the same time, and Galliard considers just getting up, getting dressed, taking Sarge and leaving. But he’s worn out too, and that bed is terribly inviting, even if Reiner _is_ laying in a pool of jizz and sweat.

Galliard flops down onto his back next to Reiner, staring up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes as he gets his breath back. He realizes, after a few moments, that someone is looking at him, and turns his head to see Reiner is watching him with a soppy, sleepy, deeply content look on his face. He’s smiling, and it’s one of those real smiles, not the fake ones he gives when he’s talking to people at the gym, one of those real smiles that’s happy and peaceful and a little sad all at the same time.

“What?”

“Thank you.” Reiner cushions himself further into his arms, the smile never leaving his face. “That was… really great.”

This guy. Who the fuck _thanks_ someone for sex? Especially someone who spent the whole time calling him a bitch and cockslut? Galliard simply nods curtly and looks back up at the ceiling, hoping he’s not turning pink again.

They’re quiet for awhile, long enough for Galliard’s heart to resume its normal rhythm, long enough for Galliard to start dozing. He really _is_ going to fall asleep here, and he can’t do that. He might be willing to eat Reiner Braun’s food, and make him help with Economics, and even let him walk his dog while Galliard is at the gym, but he doesn’t owe him any post-coital cuddling. They’re not boyfriends, and never will be.

“Do you need a pillow?”

Galliard turns back to Reiner, who looks almost half-asleep. All the pillows are on his side of the bed, and Galliard has been resting his head directly on the mattress. “I’m okay.”

“You’ll get a crick in your neck.”

If he only knew how Galliard usually sleeps, he wouldn’t be saying that. “It’s all right. I’m not staying much longer.”

“Oh.” Reiner looks crestfallen, like a little boy denied a promised treat. “I thought you might… never mind.”

Thought Galliard might stay the night? Is that what Reiner had been about to say? No, of course not. He wouldn’t be inviting Galliard to spend the night with him. Why would he even want to?

“Mmmph… here.” Galliard reaches out and grabs Reiner’s closest arm. Reiner lets him straighten it, watching with surprised eyes as Galliard lifts his head and then lowers it onto his arm. “That’ll work.”

Reiner smiles. “Yeah. That’ll work.”

Galliard nods, and looks back at the ceiling. He really does need to get going pretty soon here; pack up Sarge and head back to their own part of town. He should probably cam tonight, he usually does on Thursdays, get next month’s rent in the bag, and then tomorrow he has a rare later shift at Starbucks and then appointments at the gym, and he needs to study, and… and he interrupts himself with a yawn. Reiner’s arm is firm and the perfect size and shape under his head, warm and slightly fuzzy with hair, and Galliard closes his eyes, promising himself that he’s going to get up and leave in just a few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7500 words! A full 18% of everything written so far! And an early update because I'll be busy tomorrow morning.
> 
> The next six weeks are going to be really busy for me at work. I'm going to try and keep up this pace, but I may need to scale back to biweekly updates, especially if the chapters keep growing at the rate they currently are. I'll let you all know if that becomes necessary.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys deal with the aftermath of their evening and Reiner gets some text messages.

Reiner can’t feel his arm.

That probably means someone is lying on it, and he sleepily reaches out with his other arm. Sure enough, there’s a warm, pliable body next to him in the bed, and Reiner curls his arm around it, drawing him close to his chest, spooning around him. In his still-mostly asleep state, he defaults to it being Jean, the last person he regularly shared a bed with, and sleepily nuzzles into the back of his neck. Have things been righted? Is Jean not mad at him anymore? God, he’s missed this, these sleepy mornings together, lounging and cuddling, sweet kisses exchanged, and maybe some slow, gentle lovemaking before getting up and making breakfast.

Except Jean was always lean and whip-cord thin, all wiry muscle and knobby spine, and the person he’s holding is thicker, solid through the waist and heavy with muscles. His hair is shorter, shaved close to the skin in the back, bristly under Reiner’s lips, and he’s warmer; Jean always ran a few degrees lower than normal and easily got cold, and this man is burning like a little combustion engine in Reiner’s arms, pumping out heat into the little cocoon of blankets.

Reiner opens his eyes, and his vision fills with red-gold hair splayed across his pillowcase.

 _Galliard_.

It all comes flooding back, all at once: Galliard bringing his dog over, then leaving to go to the gym; Reiner taking Sarge for a slow, meandering walk through the neighborhood, waiting patiently as the dog sniffed and then peed on almost everything in his path; Galliard coming back from the gym, and finding them on the couch, and then… and then everything that happened after.

Reiner shifts his hips back, both as a test and to get them away from Galliard’s rump, which he’d been nestled up behind and which had formed a very tempting cushion for his cock. He’s sore, the kind of sore that results from some quality sex, and he can feel dried cum and lube caked between his legs and in his pubic hair. He’s going to need a shower, and some time stretching, before he feels like himself again. That doesn’t address the more pressing problem, though: the fact that Galliard fell asleep here and somehow migrated over into a cuddling position during the night, and how he’ll react when he wakes up.

Reiner wishes he could just go back to sleep and enjoy this a little longer, but he can see his alarm clock over Galliard’s shoulder, and it’s coming around to six o’clock. He knows Galliard works at Starbucks in the mornings and sometimes in the afternoons—he’s frequently trailed by the scent of coffee and sugar, clinging to his clothes—and doesn’t want him to miss a shift.

“Galliard.” Reiner lifts his arm and lays it across Galliard’s bicep, giving him a little shake. “Galliard, wake up.”

Nothing. No movement at all at first, then Galliard makes that sleepy, grumbling sound in his throat that he’d made when he was napping on the couch, and rolls over, into Reiner’s arms. He flings his free arm over Reiner’s side and buries his face in his chest, mumbling something that is probably supposed to be words but just sounds like mush.

For just a moment, Reiner rests his chin on top of Galliard’s head, in his tangle of silky hair, and wishes they could stay like this, almost as much as he wishes Galliard would _let_ Reiner hold him like this. If he was allowed, Reiner would hold him like this all night, and fall asleep to the gentle beat of Galliard’s heart next to his own.

“Galliard.” Reiner shakes him again, reluctantly lifting his head and leaning back. Maybe the cold air on Galliard’s chest will roust him? “C’mon, it’s morning, wake up.”

Galliard scrunches up his face, like a little boy who doesn’t want to get up from his nap, then opens his eyes to look directly into Reiner’s. There’s a brief second of confusion, then sudden, startled realization, and Reiner isn’t surprised in the slightest when Galliard pushes back out of his arms and sits up.

“What the…” Galliard stares down at him, and for just the slightest fraction of a second, Reiner thinks he’s going to lay back down and snuggle up against him. There’s a moment of indecision, of conflicting wants, and Reiner holds perfectly still, not trying to sway Galliard with anything other than his eyes.

It almost happens; the muscles in Galliard’s arms tremble minutely, and there’s the faintest quaver of his lower lip. But then his eyes widen, and he blurts out one word before leaping off the bed and dashing out of the room.

“Sarge!”

Damn, they forgot about the dog! Reiner groans and hauls himself out of bed, wincing at the very satisfying pangs the motion sets off in his ass, and follows Galliard. He only pauses long enough to grab his bathrobes off their hooks on the back of the bedroom door—one is his heavy winter one and the other is a silky, summertime affair, but they’ll have to do.

He finds Galliard in the living room, crouched next to the dog’s nest, almost hidden in the early morning shadows. Sarge has his head lifted, and Reiner can hear his tail thumping on the floor; the dog seems none the worse for the wear, and as Reiner watches, he licks Galliard’s palm.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, shit fuck _shit_ , I can’t believe I…” Galliard’s voice suddenly cuts out, and he drops his head down, his hands cupping Sarge’s face on either side, and presses his forehead against the dog’s.  
Reiner feels like he’s stumbled upon something very private, something painfully intimate, and he steps quietly into the kitchen. He shrugs into his summer robe, draping the heavier one over his arm, and waits until he hears Galliard clear his throat in the other room to enter again.

Galliard is sitting back on his heels, his hands fisted on both knees, with Sarge looking cheerful and perky beside him. “I need some cheese and his aspirin.” His voice is quiet and full of humility, very unlike how he usually sounds, and Reiner nods before dropping the robe of the couch and going back into the kitchen to fetch some cheese. When he returns, Galliard is wearing the robe—it’s delightfully oversized on him, the sleeves falling down over his hands, and Reiner is disappointed he won’t have more time to admire him in it—and takes the cheese chunk and bottle of aspirin without a word.

Sarge greedily devours his treat and then looks back and forth between the two of them, wagging his tail but making no move to get up. Galliard sighs and runs his hand through his hair, making a valiant effort to push it back and failing miserably. “What time is it?”

“A little after six.”

“ _Shit_.” Galliard springs to his feet, wild-eyed and frantic. “My shift starts at seven-thirty, _fuck_!” He glances down at Sarge, and Reiner can just imagine the mental gyrations going on in his head as he tries to figure out the timing on everything.

“Where do you work?”

“The one near the university.” Galliard groans, his hand moving to rake through his hair again. “But I have to take him home first, and the subways are always fucking _packed_ this time of day, and…”

“Galliard.” Reiner reaches out and puts a hand on Galliard’s shoulder, and while he startles, jumping under Reiner’s hand, he doesn’t bolt or push Reiner away. He just looks up at him, his eyes wide and close to panic. “Go take a shower and eat something. I’ll walk Sarge, and then I’ll drive you to work.”

The relief in Galliard’s expression is almost pathetic. It’s also short-lived, pinching off almost immediately. “He can’t come to work with me.”

“He can stay here. I can work from home today.” Reiner offers a tentative smile and squeezes Galliard’s shoulder. “I’ll take good care of him, I promise.”

Sarge’s tail beats on the floor, a percussive accompaniment of agreement.

Galliard is still clearly conflicted, warring back and forth between his options. Reiner stays quiet, letting him figure it out, his heart gently aching for him. He doesn’t know what happened to make Galliard so distrustful, so fiercely independent, but it can’t have been anything good.

Abruptly, Galliard lifts his arm, the one Reiner is touching, and for a moment Reiner thinks he’s going to throw it off. He doesn’t; instead, Galliard wraps his arm around Reiner’s and squeezes it, his hand on Reiner’s bicep in a gesture that’s almost a caress, giving the single oddest hug Reiner has ever had in his life.

“Give him ten minutes before you walk him, he needs time for his pills to work.” Galliard looks pointedly down at Sarge, who is grinning in that goofy Labrador way, and even though he’s not looking at him, Reiner notices how his cheeks get the faintest bit more pink. “Thanks.”

Then he shakes free and heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Reiner lets his breath out in a sigh, and bends down to pet Sarge. “Quite the guy you’ve got there, buddy.”

Sarge simply wags his tail and puts his muzzle down on his front paws.

Reiner gets dressed in a pair of sweatpants—he goes commando, not wanting to bother with underwear until he’s had a shower—and an old gym shirt. He looks scruffy as hell, his hair disheveled and his beard in need of a trim, but too bad. He’s just walking a dog, whatever, and Reiner shrugs into an old jacket before crouching next to Sarge.

“You ready to go?”

Sarge is not ready to go; he tries to get up once before collapsing with a whine, and Reiner settles onto the floor next to him, petting his head and giving his pills more time to work. He wonders how long Sarge’s back legs have been giving him trouble, and how dependent he is on his daily doses of aspirin. 

Reiner’s phone is lying face down on the coffee table, and since he’s waiting, he snags it with his free hand and looks at the screen.

Forty-seven messages, twelve missed calls.

Reiner’s heart almost stops in his chest, and his first thought is that something happened to his mom. Something happened to her, and he was too busy getting fucked to answer his phone. With shaking hands, he unlocks it, and immediately goes to missed calls.

There aren’t any messages, and all the calls are from Ymir, Historia, and Bertolt.

All his energy runs out of him in a flood, and Reiner sags forward in relief. His mom is fine, it was just his friends being jack-offs. How did they even _know_ that anything was going on last night?

There’s only one way to find out.

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: aaaaaaaaayyyy  
Sassy Lesbian Ymir: heard u got a fuckboi up there**

**Historia R.: Reiner, was that the young man from the club in the elevator?  
** Historia R.: Aren’t you working with him at the gym?  
Historia R.: Are you sure this is a good idea? 

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: dont listen to hissy  
** Sassy Lesbian Ymir: u get that boy  
Sassy Lesbian Ymir: u fuck him real good 

**Historia R.: You’re going to get your heart broken again!**

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: no ur not  
** Sassy Lesbian Ymir: ur smarter than that  
Sassy Lesbian Ymir: u get that rebound booty 

**Historia R.: How old is he?  
Historia R.: He looked younger than he did at the club.**

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: who cares he’s at least 18  
Sassy Lesbian Ymir: rob that cradle**

**Historia R.: Do you even know his last name?**

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: do u even know MY last name?**

**Bertolt Hoover: Reiner, why are Historia and Ymir sending me all these messages?**

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: bert is on my side  
Sassy Lesbian Ymir: he thinks u should get it**

**Bertolt Hoover: Wait  
** Bertolt Hoover: Do you have Galliard up there with you?  
Bertolt Hoover: Reiner, be careful 

**Historia R.: We’re worried about you.**

**Bertolt Hoover: Are you at least using protection?**

**Sassy Lesbian Ymir: never mind bert is a traitor**

And so on and so forth. Reiner groans quietly as he scrolls through them, his eyes glazing over; it had clearly been a boring evening yesterday, if everyone is so interested in his affairs and where his dick has or hasn’t been. He’s about to delete all of them and send a blanket _I’m fine, leave me alone_ text when one of the last ones catches his eyes, and his thumb hovers as he reads.

**J. Kirschstein: hey, I heard you met someone  
** J. Kirschstein: good for you, I’m glad  
J. Kirschstein: call me if you want? 

No, Reiner does _not_ want, and he takes a small, savage thrill from deleting those messages in particular. Then he sends a quick message ( **I’m fine, stop worrying, it’s all good here, no one murdered me in my sleep** ) to the other three, and turns off the notifications on his phone before he can get a deluge of responses.

“Come on, Sarge. Let’s go take a walk.”

Sarge manages to get to his feet without any problems, and away they go.

~*~

Sarge marks the side of the building as soon as they get outside, and Reiner feels a flash of guilt for how long the dog must have been holding it. Sarge seems to bear him no ill will, and gives the bushes out front an interested, thorough sniffing while Reiner trails after him.

“Hello, Mr. Braun.”

Reiner turns, and it’s a pair of boys who live in the building, Udo and Falco, looking resplendent in their school uniforms, with Falco’s older brother Colt lingering the background and looking embarrassed by his charges. “Did you get a dog?”

Reiner smiles; he likes kids in general, and these kids in particular. “No, he belongs to a friend and is just visiting. Do you want to pet him?”

They do, and even Colt is lured over by the prospect of petting a friendly dog. Sarge deeply enjoys all the attention being lavished on him, and delights Udo by licking his cheek. Then the boys are on their way to school, and Reiner takes Sarge back upstairs.

Galliard is out of the shower and dressed in a black polo shirt and wrinkled khakis, rooting around in Reiner’s kitchen. There’s already evidence of his rampage for food on the kitchen counters: an empty yogurt container, neatly rinsed and set beside the sink for recycling; a banana missing from the fruit bowl; the kettle bubbling and Reiner’s can of Quaker Oats on the counter. There’s also a bowl of food out for Sarge, which he goes to immediately and starts eating noisily, his ears bobbing up and down with enthusiasm.

“You don’t buy cereal.” That could sound accusatory but doesn’t; Galliard merely sounds curious. 

“Too much sugar and empty calories.” Reiner opens another cupboard and gets out the honey, offering it to Galliard, who takes it and squirts it on the bowl of oatmeal he’s working on. When he’s done, Galliard hands it back to Reiner and gestures to the counter, and Reiner is touched to find a second bowl of oatmeal there, along with a steaming mug of green tea. “Thanks.”

Galliard nods, and they eat breakfast together in silence. It’s not the kind of post-sex breakfast Reiner usually enjoys, but he’ll take it.

Galliard eats fast, tucking away the food like a man on a mission, and when he’s done, he rinses out his bowl and goes back into the living room, crouching next to Sarge’s nest, which he’d gone back to after eating, and talking quietly to him. Reiner finishes eating and gathers his wallet and car keys, and Galliard meets him at the door. “He’s going to want another walk around twelve o’clock. Then he’ll probably sleep the rest of the afternoon, but I’ll be back to get him before then.”

“All right.” They head out to the hallway and the elevator, and Reiner notices that Galliard is wearing his scarf again.  
Galliard is quiet in the car, cradling his chin in his hand and looking out the window the whole way. Reiner is familiar with the streets around the university, and gets him to the Starbucks on the university’s outskirts with ten minutes to spare.

Reiner parks the car, but Galliard doesn’t get out right away. He keeps looking out the window, studying the Starbucks awning, unusually pensive and solemn, and Reiner wonders if he regrets what they did last night. Reiner doesn’t; it had been a pretty new experience for him, getting ordered around like that, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Being able to lose control that way had been something he didn’t know he needed. But now is probably not the time to discuss it—if Galliard wants to discuss it at all—so Reiner chooses a safer topic.

“Sarge met three of the kids who live in the building today. They loved him.”

“Sarge has always liked kids.” Galliard’s voice is distant, like he’s not really listening. He turns from the window and looks at Reiner, _really_ looks at him, with his brows drawn in above his nose and his mouth held in a faint, barely there frown. It looks like he’s going to say something—he even opens his mouth to start—but then he puts his hand on the car’s door handle and gets out.

“I’ll be over around one to get him. Uh… thanks for watching him today.”

Two thank you’s in one day; Reiner ducks his head so he can smile at Galliard and make sure he sees it. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you later.”

Galliard just stares at Reiner, his hand still on the car door, holding it open. Not for the first time, Reiner wonders if Galliard realizes how much his expressions really give away about how he’s feeling; he knows that Galliard is capable of hiding everything, but then sometimes realizes absolutely everything with a single glance. This is one of those times: Galliard looks confused and miserable and alone, torn between opposing forces, and as much as it pains him, Reiner stays in the car. 

Galliard breaks eye contact and shakes his head, jarring loose that one piece of hair that always hangs across his forehead. “I’ll see you later. Bye.”

He slams the car door and sets off for the Starbucks, his shoulders set and tense, nearly up to his ears, and Reiner watches him go. It feels like that’s all he’s been doing lately, watching Galliard walk away from him, and he doesn’t pull the car away until the door to the coffee shop has swung shut, sealing Galliard away inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter ten! A bit shorter than the last one, but here it is, on time and fresh for your perusal.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard eats some meat and Reiner gets some answers.

Sarge is waiting on his nest when Reiner gets back to the apartment, and a delivery box with a very distinctive smile logo is leaning against the door. Reiner uses a pair of scissors to get the box open, and it’s a plush new dog bed.

“Look what I’ve got for you, buddy!”

Sarge wags his tail.

Once the dog is deposited on his new bed and snoozing in the sunshine, Reiner takes a long, steaming shower, letting the hot water beat away all the aches and pains in him. He finds some longish, red-gold hair on his shampoo bottle, and that makes him smile; Galliard won’t be smelling like cheap, industrial soap today. Once he’s clean, he changes into some comfortable clothes and then strips the bed, frowning at the giant stain on it from last night, and gets a load of laundry going before he remakes it.

With all his chores done, Reiner sits down at the kitchen table with his work laptop to begin another long, boring day of reading chemical formulas and trying to find places where they differ. This isn’t why he went to law school, or minored in Chemistry, not by a long shot. But it pays the bills and keeps him in this apartment, so he can’t complain too much. He has a good lifestyle! Everyone at work says his apartment looks really nice, and that he dresses well and plays the part of an up and coming young lawyer to the hilt. The firm doesn’t even mind that he’s gay, as long as he’s not too flamboyant about it; he’d had a long and uncomfortable talk with the partners when a picture of him in his peacock Pride outfit had surfaced on the Internet. Things could be worse. Things could be a _hell_ of a lot worse, and Reiner knows when to keep his head down and keep a good thing going. He’s not going to be foolish enough to make waves and attract unwanted attention.

His self-pep talk done, Reiner turns his attention to his work, bending low over the formulas and getting ready for a long, boring morning.

True to Galliard’s prediction, Sarge sleeps most of the morning. It turns out that he snores, and farts, in his sleep, and Reiner has to get up to open the balcony door at one point, or risk getting run out of the apartment by the stench. It turns out to be a beautiful, sunny spring day outside, with just a hint of summer’s heat in the air, and Reiner ends up standing out there for a few minutes, looking thoughtfully at his grill, currently swaddled with its protective winter tarp.

The dog wakes up and starts getting restless around eleven thirty, and Reiner gladly pushes his computer aside to take him for a walk. It’s just as pretty outside as he thought it would be, and even Sarge has a little bounce in his step as they make their way around the neighborhood. Reiner lets the dog follow his nose, and Sarge leads him to a tiny butcher shop, tucked away in an alley, that Reiner would have never found on his own. They stay on the sidewalk, but the butcher is happy to come out and talk to them, and Reiner is glad he brought his wallet; they leave with two huge steaks and one smaller one, and a soup bone for Sarge to chew on.

Reiner leaves the door unlocked when he gets home, so Galliard can get back in, and Sarge doesn’t immediately retreat to his bed. Instead, he pads after Reiner, nosing hopefully at his leg as he puts the steaks on the counter.< /p>

“Sorry, pal, these aren’t for you.” The little one is, but Reiner wants to cook it first. Sarge gives him the saddest, most mournful eyes, and Reiner pulls the soup bone out of the bag. “But this is!”

Sarge practically dances with glee, but when that almost topples him over, he settles for wagging his tail fiercely and drooling all over Reiner’s foot. Reiner escorts him back to his bed and gets him to lay down, then spreads an old towel under his head so he doesn’t get anything on the carpet. Then he presents Sarge with the bone, and he sets to work on the serious business of gnawing on it while Reiner goes back to the kitchen.

Galliard comes back at around one fifteen, reeking of coffee and in a foul mood. He announces his entrance with a slammed door and a complaint, which gets muffled before it reaches Reiner.

“Can’t hear you!”

“Why not, where the hell…” Galliard comes into the living room, carrying Reiner’s scarf in one hand, already shrugging out of his jacket, and stops dead in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

“Grilling.” The grill has emerged from hibernation, and Reiner is out on the balcony, carefully turning a steak with his tongs. On the upper level of the grill, he has four baked potatoes wrapped in tinfoil cooking away, and on the kitchen table, he’s made a pretty sad excuse for a salad with the slightly wilted lettuce and cucumber he found in the refrigerator.

Galliard’s eyes have gone wide, and Reiner can almost see him drooling. “Uh… that’s a nice grill.”

“Thanks.” The steaks are sizzling, getting some nice grill marks on them, and Reiner estimates they’ll be done in about ten minutes on this heat. “I bought too much, though. Can Sarge have this little one?”

“He’d… really like that.” Galliard’s voice sounds faint. “Just cut it up first.”

“Of course.” Reiner half-turns towards Galliard and smiles with one side of his mouth. “I don’t think I can eat both of the big ones, though.”

Galliard nods. “I’m going to go take a shower. I smell like shit.”

“You smell like coffee.”

“Like I said… like shit.”

“All right.” Reiner turns a potato with the tongs. “Will you help me eat the other one? It’s too big for Sarge.”

“Yeah, okay.”

When Reiner looks up, Galliard is gone and the bathroom door is closed, the only trace of him being a discarded green apron on the floor.

By the time Galliard emerges from the bathroom, flushed pink and followed by a cloud of steam, wearing Reiner’s bathrobe again, the steaks are cooked to a nice medium-rare and the potatoes are baked through. Reiner has everything on the table, and Sarge has already gobbled down his steak and returned to his bone. Galliard plops down without a word and reaches for the butter to slather on his potatoes.

It’s almost alarming, watching Galliard eat; he eats with a single-minded determination that leaves no room for conversation, no room for anything but the food in front of him, like he’s afraid someone is going to snatch it away. That kind of desperation stirs something in Reiner, awakens memories long since buried and forgotten, and he pays attention to his own plate, the only sounds in the room the clink of forks and knives on china, the frantic gulping as Galliard swallows.

Galliard finishes first, polishing off his steak and potatoes in record time, and then attacking the sad little salad. While he’s working on that, Reiner quietly cuts one of his potatoes in half and slips the bigger half onto Galliard’s plate, which he immediately lays into. It’s impressive, in a strange way, how much food he’s able to pack away in a short amount of time, and Reiner half-wonders if he’s going to get sick. He slows down over the last potato, though, and is swaying in his seat by the time Reiner is finished, his eyes at half-mast and looking the most content Reiner has ever seen him.

“You grill good.”

“Thank you.” Reiner stands up and clears the plates, taking them to the sink to rinse off. “You didn’t mind the steak being medium rare?”

Galliard laughs, his dry, self-deprecating chuckle. “Did I look like someone who cared about that?”

“Not really.” Reiner walks back to him and drops a hand on Galliard’s shoulder. To his surprise, Galliard reaches up and puts his hand over his; Galliard’s fingers are rough and calloused with work, but he’s surprisingly gentle when he squeezes Reiner’s hand. “What’s your schedule today?”

Galliard groans, and his hand drops from Reiner’s and onto the table. “I have to…” He pauses, clearly thinking, and then shakes his head. “I _don’t_ have to go to the gym.” He sounds astonished by this revelation. “I don’t have anything going on until my shift at the club later.”

“What time is that?”

“Nine.”

That’s not for another seven hours, and Reiner’s pulse picks up a beat. “Do you want to hang out here?”

“I…” Galliard suddenly sits forward, putting both hands on the table. “What’s Sarge sleeping on?”

“What… oh.” Galliard has turned around, watching Reiner through narrowed, suspicious eyes, and Reiner is suddenly embarrassed. “I got him a bed. So he doesn’t have to lay right on the floor! If he moved too much, he’d mess up that nest and end up on the hardwood!”

Thank god for law school and preparing him for quick thinking.

Galliard looks at Reiner a moment longer, then gets up to brush past him and go over to the dog’s bed, crouching next to him. Sarge lifts his head and wags his tail, and Galliard pets him with one hand while poking at the bite-marked soup bone with the other. “You’re spoiling him.”

Reiner shrugs. “Probably. But he’s seventeen, right? Hasn’t he earned a little spoiling?”

Galliard snorts and stands, but there’s a hint of humor in his eyes when he looks back at Reiner, a certain tilt to the corners of his mouth that give Reiner hope. “The damn dog is having a better retirement than I will.”

“Maybe he’s just off active duty now.”

Reiner means it as a joke, a play on the dog’s military name, but as soon as he says it, Galliard’s face fractures. For a split second, everything caves in around his eyes and mouth, revealing something raw and anguished and hideously vulnerable, and Reiner thinks, for a horrifying moment, that Galliard is going to burst into tears. But then, just as quickly as it came on, it disappears; Galliard’s expression seals away again, all that pain locked down tight, and he just looks cool and impassive again, his face an impenetrable mask.

“I guess so.” He bends down to pat Sarge again, and then, not looking at Reiner or meeting his eyes, moves towards the bedroom. “I’m going to take a nap.”

Reiner follows him, feeling depressed and out of sorts. He doesn’t know what he did, and Galliard isn’t lashing out at him or calling attention to it, but that joke had clearly prodded something free and he wants… he doesn’t know what he wants. To apologize, to make it right, to know what he’d done wrong so he can avoid it in the future. But he knows what happens when he tries to press Galliard on anything, and so settles for turning down the blankets for him. “What time do you want me to wake you up?”

“I’ll set an alarm.” Galliard sheds Reiner’s bathrobe, and he’s naked underneath, his skin still rosy and pink from his shower. He glances up at Reiner, and something in Reiner’s expression must get to him, because he sighs and relents. “Sixish?”

“Okay.” Reiner watches as Galliard crawls into his bed and flops on his back, immediately spreading out his arms and legs and sighing contentedly, his eyelids already drooping, his dog tags glinting dully on his chest. “I’ll… I’ll see you then.”

He’s almost out the door when Galliard’s voice, already thick with sleep, calls him back.

“Reiner?”

Reiner stops and turns, one hand on the door frame. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t fuck up.”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t fuck up. You just didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Reiner takes a step into the room, his full attention on the lump on the bed. “What didn’t I know?”

He’s too late; Galliard is already asleep, his lips parted slightly and his face more relaxed than Reiner has ever seen it. 

Without thinking too much about it, Reiner pulls a blanket over Galliard—it might be spring, but it can still get cold awfully fast—then stands at the side of the bed and watches him for a few minutes. It isn’t until he leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him, that he realizes that might be the first time, outside of the gym, that Galliard has called him by his name.

~*~

The rest of the day passes in a long, slow trudge of monotony. Reiner keeps up with his work, but the chemical formulas all start blurring before his eyes, and he knows his heart isn’t in it. If he’s honest with himself, his heart hasn’t been in it for a long, long time. He takes a break around four to try and get Sarge to play with him, but the dog isn’t interested beyond some tail wagging and a few swipes at Reiner’s hands with his tongue. Reiner leaves him to his nap and goes out for a walk, picking up some much-needed groceries and trying to clear his head.

That kills some time, and when he comes back, Sarge is awake and restless, so he gives him his second dose of pills and takes him outside to relieve himself. Sarge marks the side of the building again, then seems eager to go back inside, so back they go, and by then, it’s time to wake up Galliard.

Reiner lets himself into his bedroom, which the lowering afternoon sun has painted in shades of grey and purple with shadows, and stands at the side of the bed, looking down at Galliard.

He’s still on his back, his arms spread wide; it looks like he’s hardly moved at all. The blanket Reiner put on him covers him to the waist, and his dog tags lay in the middle of his chest, rising up and down as he breathes.

Reiner eyes those dog tags, suddenly wondering about them. He has always assumed that Galliard had served at some point, and that they’re a souvenir from an earlier part of his life, but now he’s not sure. Reiner has known some former military men, and every single one of them has some level of ink crawling over his skin; Galliard is unmarked but for some freckles on his shoulders and the occasional mole. Most former military guys have short hair all over, not long on top like Galliard’s, and most of them are all too happy to talk about their service, especially if they’re still wearing their tags. The way Galliard had shut down when Reiner had talked about being off active duty spoke of some deeper trauma, something buried but still with the power to cut and wound.

Reiner wonders what name is on those tags, and what it means to Galliard. Maybe it would be a clue to Galliard’s past, to who he was before he came to Trost, to why he’s so sad underneath his bristly, aggressive persona. Whoever it was, they must have been important.

Reiner realizes he’s been standing in one spot for at least a couple of minutes, staring at the tags with glazed, half-closed eyes, and he shakes his head. He wants to look at them; he can admit that to himself. He wants to start to piece together the mystery of Galliard, to help him heal whatever deep wounds he’s hiding. But as much as he wants that, he knows looking at the tags would be a deep betrayal of Galliard’s trust, and so instead, he settles for reaching out and shaking his shoulder.

“Galliard. Galliard, wake up, it’s almost six.”

Galliard doesn’t move, and he’s a dead weight against Reiner’s hand. Then he sucks in a quick breath, his face scrunches up, and he turns over to his side, curling into a fetal position and nearly rolling onto Reiner’s arm. He makes an indistinct sound that’s definitely not any actual words, and Reiner moves his hand to his top shoulder and gives him another gentle shake.

“Come on, you told me to wake you up.”

Galliard sighs, stretching his legs down, and cracks one eye to look up at Reiner. There’s something pensive about his gaze, something naked and honest from his sleep, and his arms suddenly shoot up, grabbing Reiner and pulling him down. Reiner is too surprised to resist, and lands on the bed with an ungainly flop, half on and half off Galliard.

Galliard makes quick work of the situation; Reiner might be half a foot taller than he is and outweigh him by almost thirty pounds, but Galliard works out all the time too, and it doesn’t take him long to manhandle Reiner into the position he wants him in. Before Reiner quite realizes what’s happening, he’s laying on his side with Galliard curled behind him in the classic spooning position, Galliard’s knees pressed against the back of his thighs, his arms around Reiner’s waist, and his face pressed between Reiner’s shoulder blades. It’s abruptly, shockingly intimate, and Reiner is almost afraid to breathe. Tentatively, he lays his arm on top of Galliard’s, and Galliard responds by rubbing his face across Reiner’s back and mumbling something under his breath.

“What?” Reiner isn’t expecting a response, his question is one he asks without thinking, and he’s ill-prepared for Galliard to lift his head and voice himself more clearly.

“Why are you so nice to me?”

Reiner has no idea how to answer that, or if Galliard even wants an answer, so he stays quiet. Galliard waits a beat, then rests his cheek against Reiner’s shoulder blade and sighs.

“I’m not nice to _you_. I’ve never been nice to you. But you… you’ve always been really good to me.” From behind him, Reiner can feel Galliard turn his head a little, and brush his lips against his back, their passage feeling like searing little brands. “Why?”

It’s a good question; it’s _the_ question, and Reiner hopes Galliard isn’t offended if he needs to take a moment to think of the answer. Why _is_ he so nice to Galliard? If he was just the first guy to make his dick hard after a bad breakup, then that would explain the strip club, and the cam shows. It doesn’t explain the gym sessions, or letting Galliard into his house, or taking care of his dog or helping him find more gym clients or deliberately buying the fruit he seems to go for and making sure it’s stocked when he comes over. It explains none of that, and Reiner has to grapple with an unpleasant thought: why _is_ he nice to Galliard?

“I think…” he starts, going slow, taking his time, and Reiner moves to take Galliard’s hand in his. To his surprise, Galliard entwines their fingers together, possessive and uncertain at the same time, and it gives Reiner the strength he needs to continue. “I think it’s because you remind me a lot of myself, when I was younger, and I can relate to the kind of stuff you’re going through.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then Galliard snorts behind him. “Yeah, right. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“But that’s bullshit!” Galliard shifts behind him, propping himself up on one elbow without letting go of Reiner’s hand, and Reiner rolls to his back so he can see him. Galliard’s jaw is set, and he looks stubborn and disbelieving. “I mean, _come on_! You’re going to tell me your fancy private school ass knows what it’s like to have four jobs?”

“I didn’t go to a private school. And I had three jobs when I was in college.”

The way Galliard’s mouth drops open is almost comical. “What?”

“I went to Trost Public 104.” Reiner wriggles the arm between them free, and cups Galliard’s hand in both of his. “I grew up on the south side and lived in government housing until I was twenty-three.”

“But… but… _this_!” Galliard makes a sweeping gesture with his head, like he’s trying to take in the whole apartment, and Reiner feels a small, bittersweet smile play at the corner of his mouth.

“I worked my ass off and got very, very lucky at a couple of key times in my life. But I don’t come from money.” Reiner pauses, wondering how much he wants to tell Galliard, and realizes something: he wants to tell him all of it. He wants Galliard to know that they’re not so different, that he knows what suffering and sacrifice is, that they might have been born under the same set of unlucky stars but that that doesn’t set your course for the rest of your life. “My mom was seventeen when she had me, and my dad was thirty-three and married. To someone else.”

Galliard is staring now, wide awake, and he shifts forward a little to listen better. The movement jars his dog tags, and they fall onto Reiner’s arm with a soft jingle. “Did you ever meet him?”

Without realizing it, Reiner reaches up and rubs the bridge of his nose, where it’s crooked and bent. He wants to tell Galliard _almost_ all of it. Only Bertolt knows the story about his nose; he’d never even told Jean. “Once. It was enough.”

“Holy shit.” Galliard sounds cowed, almost awed, and his speech is thick with his accent, soft and slurring, a gentle, almost musical quality instead of his normal terse, clipped enunciation. “So you were a country redneck?”

Reiner drops his hand from his nose, covering Galliard’s hand with both of his. “They call us white trash up here, but I’m pretty sure the sentiment is the same.”

Galliard glances down, tearing his gaze away from Reiner’s like he’s ashamed, and starts toying with Reiner’s hand. “They call us trailer trash down where I’m from.”

Reiner lets Galliard play with his hand for a moment, then gently frees himself so he can prop up on his elbows. Galliard moves over, staying on his side and watching every movement, quickly swiping his hair back and off his face. “I don’t think you’re trash.”

Galliard’s eyes widen at that, and he looks away with a quiet snort. “Thanks.”

Reiner gives him a minute to collect himself, then turns onto his side, so they’re facing each other. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”

Galliard meets Reiner’s gaze, and if his eyes are looking a little glassy, Reiner is too polite to say anything. “Do I have to answer?”

“No.” That’s not going to stop Reiner from asking, though, and he gestures at Galliard’s dog tags. “Who did those belong to?”

Galliard looks away again, his face pulling tight and jagged, but he answers. “Marcel. My older brother.”

“Okay.” That’s really all the information Reiner needs, and he sits up. “Are you hungry again?”

Galliard blinks, then barks sudden, surprised laughter. “What, that’s it? Conversation over?”

Reiner shrugs. “We don’t have to unpack everything all at one time.” He starts to get off the bed.

“Reiner, wait.” Galliard’s hand is on his arm, and Reiner turns, his legs hanging off the side of the bed, his upper body turned towards Galliard, who has a strange look on his face, both determined and afraid at the same time.

“Yeah?”

Galliard opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then closes it and sets his jaw. He scoots a little closer on the bed, the blanket pooling around his waist, and lifts one hand. Reiner holds very, very still as Galliard touches his face, his fingers light and almost shy, questing over Reiner’s cheekbone and let settling to cup his jaw and chin. Galliard frowns a little, his brows drawing down in concentration, and he puts his other hand on Reiner’s chest, close to his heart. Reiner is almost about to ask what he’s doing when Galliard shifts his thumb, turning Reiner’s head a fraction of an inch, and then leaning in to press his lips against Reiner’s.

Reiner’s breath catches in his chest, and he has a split second to hope Galliard doesn’t notice how his pulse picks up before he completely melts into the kiss. Galliard’s kiss is soft, almost shy, his lips warm and pliant against Reiner’s, and Reiner is suddenly reminded of his first kiss ever, shared with Bertolt in a shitty closet in an equally shitty apartment, accompanied by the thunder of music from another apartment and the cacophony of traffic and shouting from outside. There’s something almost innocent about it, tentative and fragile, and it’s a bizarre juxtaposition to what he’s used to from Galliard, to all the bluster and confidence and easy, natural swagger. It’s sweet and pure and so damn emotional it feels like it’s going to make Reiner’s chest burst, and he realizes he’s trembling all over but can’t stop.

Galliard might not feel Reiner’s pulse pick up, but he definitely notices the trembling, because he breaks off the kiss and pulls back, his brows still drawn down, but this time in what is touching concern. “Are you okay?”

Reiner nods. “I’m fine.” He shifts on the bed, turning so he’s more comfortably perched on it, and cautiously rests a hand on Galliard’s hip. “I just… want you to kiss me more.”

Galliard’s eyes open wide at that, and Reiner is close enough to watch his pupils blow out, black consuming his bluish-grey irises. Then he’s leaning in, kissing Reiner again but with more confidence this time, his hand slipping up from Reiner’s chest to cup his face on both sides, and Reiner hauls his legs up and onto the bed.

This kiss is better, deeper and more heady, proving that Galliard isn’t a kissing novice at all, and Reiner almost swoons when Galliard sucks on his lower lip. He loves kissing, always has, and he hadn’t realized how much he’s been missing it until this exact moment. He could kiss Galliard forever, could spend a lifetime learning the taste and shape and texture of his mouth, and it still wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.

He’s fallen, Reiner realizes, just as Galliard slips his tongue into his mouth and he falls back onto the bed, Galliard traveling with him and landing sprawled across his chest; he’s fallen so, so hard. How could he have missed it, he wonders as his hands land on Galliard’s hips, as his arms move up to circle Galliard’s waist and pull him close. Is he really so dense, so out of touch with his emotions, that he didn’t see what was happening?

When had he let himself fall head over heels for Galliard?

Galliard has both hands in Reiner’s hair, threading through it, when he abruptly breaks the kiss and lets his head drop onto Reiner’s chest. “ _Fuck_ …”

Reiner waits a moment, expecting things to start up again, and when they don’t, he lifts his head. “You all right?”

Galliard nods. “Don’t want to go to work.”

Dammit. Reiner glances at the alarm clock, and is shocked to see it creeping towards six forty-five. “It’s almost seven.”

“God _dammit_!” Galliard lifts his head and glares at the clock, like he can make it turn backwards, then pushes himself up and off Reiner. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

Reiner parts his arms reluctantly, already missing the heat and weight of Galliard nestled between them, and watches sadly as Galliard gets out of bed and walks into the living room. The fact that he’s naked and looking particularly delectable just adds insult to injury, and Reiner stays in the bedroom for a few moments, giving Galliard time to get dressed and himself time to calm down a little and gather his thoughts. That had… that had sounded, and felt, like a boyfriend kind of talk. Like they were talking to each other like a pair of guys feeling each other out, seeing if they were on the same page for a relationship. 

Reiner shakes his head, dismissing it, and climbs off the bed.

Back in the living room, Galliard is dressed again and crouched by Sarge’s bed, clipping his leash to his collar. He glances up when Reiner comes into the room, and for just a second, he smiles. It’s sweet and shy and almost embarrassed, there and then gone, and Reiner swallows.

Damn it. Completely head over heels.

“We’ve got a gym session tomorrow.” Galliard gently urges Sarge to his feet before standing up himself and turning to face Reiner. “I’m going to bring Sarge over here around eight, and then we can go to the gym together.”

“All right.” That means they can have breakfast together, and Reiner realizes he’ll be going to the grocery store tonight to stock up.

He follows Galliard and Sarge to the door, expecting them to just leave the way they’ve done before, but Galliard pauses and turns towards him. He looks up at Reiner, clearly mulling something over, before reaching a decision and nodding, once. “Give me a kiss.”

He doesn’t have to demand twice; Reiner gleefully steps forward and bends down to kiss him, Galliard tilting his head back to meet Reiner halfway. Reiner has to hold himself back, has to consciously remind himself that Galliard has to go to work, has to fight every instinct in his body to keep from drawing Galliard into his arms. He loses one of those battles and puts an arm around Galliard’s waist, only to have it gently but firmly brushed off.

Galliard breaks the kiss and steps back. “I have to _go_.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Reiner stoops to pet Sarge. “If you ever wanted to stay the night…”

Galliard snorts and shakes his head. “Like I’ll ever have the free time for that!”

It’s a sad truth, and Reiner can’t argue with it. “Isn’t your schedule getting better?”

“Yeah. But I still don’t get free nights, especially on the weekends.” Galliard pauses, like he wants to say more, but then shakes his head again. “Can’t keep all the bachelorettes waiting, right?”

“Right.” Reiner wonders why Galliard doesn’t work at one of the gay strip clubs in town—he happens to know there are at least a handful of them—but he doesn’t want to ask now. Instead, he straightens up and, on a whim, adjusts the scarf, his scarf, that Galliard is wearing. Galliard allows it for about three seconds before batting him away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.” Galliard studies Reiner’s face for a moment longer, something beseeching and needy in his eyes, something that would probably drive him insane if he knew it was there, before turning around and letting himself and Sarge out of the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ew, gross, feelings.
> 
> Happy Easter, everyone!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys go to the gym and Galliard learns something interesting.

Reiner wakes up early, and just lays on his back for awhile, staring at his ceiling and smiling. Yesterday had been, against all odds, a damn good day, a day that had been a bit of a challenge emotionally but had ended well, and today is promising to be another good one. He and Galliard aren’t perfect yet, but they feel like they’re getting closer, and Reiner finds himself humming as he swings his legs over the bed and gets up.

His sheets smell like Galliard.

After washing his face and putting on deodorant, Reiner goes to his kitchen and starts making breakfast. He has his gym appointment at nine, so it can’t be anything too heavy, but a good pot of oatmeal with lots of fruit in it should be fine. He also fries up a few strips of bacon, trying to time it so they’re done cooking promptly at eight.

He almost manages it; Reiner hears the door open and Galliard let himself in around five after eight, and the bacon is cooling on a paper towel. The door closes, and then the click of dog claws on his floor and Reiner feels a wet nose on the back of his calf.

“Hi, Sarge.” He tears a piece of bacon in half and offers it to the dog, watching it disappear in an instant. When he looks up, Galliard is standing in the door and shaking his head.

“Please tell me you didn’t make bacon just for him.”

“I have some for you, too.”

“Good answer.” Galliard crosses the kitchen and leans past Reiner, stealing two pieces of bacon from the plate. The movement puts him within range, and Reiner leans in to brush a kiss off the side of his head.

“Gross, you’re going to get hair gel on your lips.” Galliard isn’t deterred in the slightest, too busy stuffing bacon in his mouth to get out of range, and Reiner uses his distraction to launch another assault, this time aiming for his temple.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“They’re your tastebuds.” Galliard tolerates another kiss along his hairline before dancing out of reach, taking the plate of bacon with him. “I’m going to eat all these. You shouldn’t be having anything heavy before a workout.”

“I know.” Both that he shouldn’t be eating them and that Galliard was going to take them; Reiner prepared for just such an event by eating his own share when the bacon was still hot. “What about your workout?”

Galliard scoffs around a mouthful of bacon. “I’ll work you hard later.”

A promise like that puts a bright grin on Reiner’s face, and he starts serving up oatmeal for both of them.

~*~

Once breakfast is eaten and Sarge is comfortable and dozing on his bed, Reiner drives them to the gym. He’s pleased to note that Galliard doesn’t slouch in his seat this time, trying to block anyone outside from seeing him, and instead occupies himself playing with the car stereo and checking out Reiner’s Sirius stations.

“Which one is your favorite?”

“I like 80s on 8.”

Galliard side-eyes him from across the car. “Aren’t you too young for that?”

Reiner chuckles. “Probably. My mom listened to it a lot when I was growing up.”

“My uncle did too.” Galliard goes back to fiddling with the radio. “He really likes Meatloaf.”

“My mom likes AC/DC.”

Galliard nods approvingly, and sets the station before leaning back in his seat.

They arrive at the gym, and Reiner is deeply pleased when Galliard walks in with him. Hannah raises an eyebrow when she sees them walk in together, but Galliard glares at her and she doesn’t say a word. What could she say? For all she knows, they just happened to meet in the parking garage and walk into the gym at the same time. Besides, trainers are supposed to be friendly with their clients, and Galliard is doing exactly that.

 _How_ friendly they’ve gotten is another issue entirely, but Hannah _definitely_ doesn’t need to know about that.

They’re both already wearing their gym clothes, so after quickly dropping off their gear in Reiner’s locker, Reiner starts heading towards the weight benches.

“Where’d you think _you’re_ going?” Galliard reaches out and snags the back of Reiner’s shirt, drawing him up short.

“We’re not going to go lift weights?” Reiner looks back over his shoulder, his brows lifting upwards. Does Galliard have plans for cardio?

“We are, but not yet.” Galliard takes his arm and starts leading him towards one of the little offices where they’d done their intake appointment, and Reiner has to actively remind himself where they are and not reach down to take his hand. “We’ve been at this three weeks now, it’s time to measure you again.”

“See what gains I’ve made, huh?” Reiner means it as a joke, but Galliard nods seriously.

“You look like you’ve gained some muscle mass back, and your legs are definitely bigger than when we started.” He leads Reiner into an office and closes the door, then turns around and ducks in to squeeze the big muscles on top of Reiner’s thighs. “I’ve been paying attention.”

Reiner reaches for him, but Galliard slips away before he can. “No. Hold still, I’ve got work to do.”

Galliard starts at Reiner’s extremities and works his way to his core, and Reiner is startled to discover that he’s gained half an inch on both thighs and a quarter inch on his biceps. His waist is the same, and Reiner realizes that Galliard’s strategy here is brilliant: he started with the body parts most likely to have made gains and then worked his way to the ones that weren’t, so Reiner could feel a sense of accomplishment while still having something to strive towards.

“All right, the last one is your chest. Lift your arms up for me.”

Reiner does, and Galliard wraps the measuring tape around his back and moves to close it and get a measurement in the front. He’s less cautious about touching Reiner than he was when they first did this, pulling the tape tight, and when he does, his hands brush against Reiner’s nipples.

Reiner sucks in a breath as his spine goes rigid, and Galliard pauses, looking up at him, his head tilted to one side. “Did I hurt you?”

“No…” That definitely wasn’t painful, and Reiner looks away, trying to will his nipples into not hardening and poking at the fabric of his shirt. He fails, and they tighten under Galliard’s hands, drawing to stiff little peaks.

Galliard ducks his head down, looking up into Reiner’s face, then looks at his hands on Reiner’s chest. Realization dawns on him, and he straightens back up, smug and confident, and when he speaks, his voice is a rich purr, his accent out in full force.

“You like that, huh?” Galliard loosens the measuring tape so he can run the pads of his thumbs over Reiner’s nipples, lightly tweaking them through his shirt, and Reiner’s breath picks up, rumbling in his chest as he nods. Yes, he likes that very much, as evidenced by the way his shorts are suddenly starting to get too tight in the crotch region. “You like having your titties played with, big man?”

“God, _yes_.” There’s no point in denying it, and Reiner watches through glazed eyes as a big, slow grin spreads across Galliard’s face.

“You think that should be your reward for a good workout?”

“ _Please_.”

“All right, then.” Galliard moves his hands like he’s going to brush over Reiner’s nipples again, but suddenly clamps down on them and pinches, giving them both a brisk little twist, and Reiner moans out loud before he can stop himself.

Galliard jumps like a scalded cat. “Shit, shut up!” He reaches up to clamp a hand over Reiner’s mouth, stifling his moan, and Reiner swallows down his arousal. His chest aches with tension, his nipples hard and swollen, and he pants around Galliard’s hand.

Once he’s sure Reiner isn’t going to make anymore noise, Galliard drops his hand from his mouth. He looks a little flustered himself, like he doesn’t know what he just started, and when he smoothes his t-shirt down over his chest, Reiner notices that he isn’t the only one who’d been affected by this. “Okay. Uh… I’m going to measure you now. I’ll try to avoid your nips.”

Reiner nods, his arms still out at his sides, and Galliard quickly and carefully measures his chest.

“You’ve gained a quarter inch.” Galliard writes it down, and Reiner drops his arms. “So overall, these are great gains, exactly what we’ve been looking for. Hopefully next time we do a measurement, we’ll have shaved a little off your waist.” He looks up from his clipboard then, and although he’s not smiling, there’s a hint of the devil dancing in his eyes. “And I know what I’ll be playing with later.”

Reiner shivers, and follows Galliard into the gym to start his workout, a ridiculous, enormous grin on his face that he’ll credit to his gains.

~*~

With such an excellent prize as a motivating factor, Reiner’s workout feels like it flies by, and before he realizes it, he’s dripping with sweat and wrung out, his muscles sore in the best ways possible. Galliard is sweating a little too; they did some work with a medicine ball today, and he got some cardio of his own in, tossing it back and forth with Reiner. In a lot of ways, it had felt like playing on the playground as a child, and Reiner had enjoyed himself immensely.

“Great workout today.” Galliard towels his face dry, swiping his hair back, and claps Reiner on the back. It’s all very above board and manly, at least from the outside, and only Reiner knows the way Galliard’s hand dips in, caressing along his spine, before letting go.

“Thanks.” Reiner tosses a grin over his shoulder before heading to the locker room showers.

“Wait.” For the second time today, Galliard catches him by the back of his shirt, and Reiner draws up short.

“Hmmm?” Reiner turns, and the devil is back in Galliard’s eyes, and a very pleasant shiver runs up Reiner’s spine.

Galliard glances around, making sure they’re alone, before pulling Reiner close. “Why don’t we go back to your place to shower? It’s… cleaner, than here. And the water’s hotter.”

Reiner needs no further persuasion.

~*~

The ride back to Reiner’s apartment is taut with nervous excitement, and Reiner probably drives faster than he should. Galliard doesn’t help the situation, bouncing around in the passenger seat and drumming his hands on the dashboard. Once the car is parked, they’re both out of it like shots fired from a gun and rushing for the elevator, and Reiner has never been more grateful for the fob on his keys that lets him lock his car doors remotely.

In the elevator, Galliard stands next to Reiner, twitching and rocking back and forth on the toes of his sneakers, and once they’re past the first floor and still have the car to themselves, Galliard whirls on him. With quick, efficient movements, Galliard has Reiner backed up into a corner of the elevator car, his hands up and in Reiner’s hair, pulling his head down as Galliard stretches up, kissing him with a hunger that makes Reiner gasp. He wraps his arms around Galliard’s waist, holding him tight against him, and wonders, for a fleeting moment, why Galliard had pushed him away the first time Reiner tried to kiss him. He certainly doesn’t have any problems with it _now_ , thank god, and Reiner starts trembling all over as Galliard pushes his way past his lips and thrusts his tongue into Reiner’s mouth. Reiner isn’t used to being kissed so aggressively, to someone else taking charge so readily and willingly, and he’s definitely developing a taste for it.

Galliard doesn’t even hear the elevator chime softly when it reaches the right floor and opens, and Reiner reluctantly pulls away from him. For just a moment, as he’s lifting his head, he gets a look at Galliard’s face that he doesn’t see very often, with Galliard looking soft and open and vulnerable, his eyes closed and his lips parted from their kiss, and Reiner is almost tempted to hit the emergency button on the elevator door and seal them away in it for a few hours. But then Galliard opens his eyes, realizes where they are, and steps off the elevator, his hand still curled possessively around one of Reiner’s wrists.

“You stink,” Galliard tells him as they walk down the hall to Reiner’s apartment. 

“I did just finish a workout.” Reiner doesn’t think he smells _that_ bad, although he’s no bed of roses. Galliard isn’t either.

“Yeah, well, let’s get you in the shower.” Galliard steps up behind Reiner as he’s fiddling with his keys and the lock on the door and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing his chest into Reiner’s back, and it’s really doing nothing to get Reiner to unlock the door faster, it’s way too distracting. “What’s the matter? Key not working?”

Even as he asks, Galliard is sliding one hand down Reiner’s abdomen and towards his crotch, and Reiner laughs breathlessly and pushes his hand away. “You know _exactly_ what you’re doing.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Says the man who starts slowly grinding his hips against Reiner’s ass, and it’s only through pure dumb luck that Reiner manages to get the door unlocked at all.

Sarge lifts his head and wags his tail at them, and Galliard leaves Reiner’s side to go check on the dog. Reiner lets him go without protest, using the time to take off his shoes and put his keys away, tossing his gym bag towards the little closet that has the washing machine inside it. Then he walks over to join Galliard, kneeling beside him and petting Sarge’s flanks.

Sarge immediately rolls over and exposes his belly, and Galliard sighs and shakes his head. Reiner just chuckles and gives Sarge the belly rub he’s asking for. Sure, he’s all cranked up and ready to go, but the dog is important too!

Once he’s deemed Sarge sated and happy, Galliard rises to his feet. Reiner stays on the ground, helping Sarge rearrange his legs, and Galliard drops a hand onto the top of his head, scruffing his fingers through Reiner’s hair. “You going to pay attention to the dog or you going to pay attention to me?”

“You.” Reiner rises to his knees, but makes no move to stand up the rest of the way. Instead, he snakes his arms out and gets his hands on Galliard’s hips, tugging him forward so his groin is level with Reiner’s eye line. Galliard’s squawk of surprise tapers into a soft groan as Reiner starts mouthing him through his shorts, and his hand tightens in Reiner’s hair.

Galliard smells and tastes musky, his shorts still slightly damp with sweat from their workout, but Reiner doesn’t mind. If anything, it just spurns him on more, burying his nose in the join of Galliard’s leg to his body and breathing deep, his lips working up and down Galliard’s concealed length, already growing under Reiner’s ministrations. His hands curl on Galliard’s hips as Reiner draws him closer, Galliard shuffling forward a step and dropping his other hand to Reiner’s head, his fingers combing into Reiner’s hair as he pushes his head further into his crotch. Reiner is only too happy to oblige, wrapping his lips around Galliard’s cock as best he can with all the fabric in the way, and he moves his hands to the waistband of Galliard’s shorts, intending to pull them down and get them out of the way.

Galliard makes a faint gasping sound and steps back, brushing Reiner’s hands away from his shorts. Reiner glances up, his brows drawn down in confusion, his hands hovering in the air, and Galliard tilts his head to the side and offers him one of those sly little grins.

“Wouldn’t this be more fun in the shower?” He offers a hand to Reiner, and Reiner takes it, letting Galliard pull him to his feet. “You go get it started, all right? I’ll be along in a minute.”

Reiner nods, and Galliard swats him on the ass as he hurries past, walking bow-legged to accommodate his erection.

Reiner strips down quickly, tossing his gym clothes into the bathroom hamper, and gets the shower started. He remembers that, based on all the steam he makes whenever he takes one, Galliard likes hot showers, and cranks the handles far to the left. The water comes pounding out, almost scalding, and Reiner turns his face up to it, letting it stream down his cheeks.

The water is making so much noise that Reiner doesn’t hear Galliard come in; he only knows he’s there when he feels Galliard’s arms wrap around his waist, and Galliard pressing his cheek between his shoulder blades. Reiner lifts his arms, his hands touching Galliard’s near the elbows, and he traces his fingers down Galliard’s forearms to his clasped hands. As soon as he feels Reiner touch his hands, Galliard’s open, blossoming out like flowers, and Reiner twines their fingers together, clasping them in a knot above his abdomen. Behind him, he feels Galliard take a deep breath, almost a sigh, and then his lips brushing along his spine.

“Where’s your loofah?”

The question feels like it comes out of left field, and it takes Reiner a moment to parse it. What, they’re actually going to _wash_ in here? “Over there.” He gestures, and Galliard lets go of his hand to reach for it.

Reiner watches, bemused and weirdly enchanted, as Galliard lets go of him and gets the loofah, squirting shower gel onto it and getting it all foamy. The water from the shower pounds on the back of his neck and shoulders, and Galliard’s hair starts to fall forward, parting down the middle and framing his cheeks, reminiscent of a boy band from the nineties. Before the resemblance gets too strong, Galliard swipes it back and lifts his head, gesturing for Reiner to turn around. “Let me get your back.”

Reiner turns obediently, and Galliard starts scrubbing him down, working the loofah over Reiner’s muscles and into all the areas that are hard for him to reach on his own. Muscles don’t make for great flexibility, and Reiner sighs with pleasure when Galliard hits all the right spots.

“Okay, turn around.” Reiner does, and they’re facing each other again, and Galliard starts soaping up his chest, his expression serious and intent as he works. Reiner watches through half-lidded eyes, steam rising around them like smoke, and there’s something otherworldly and magical about the whole experience, as Galliard soaps him up and then the water washes his work away.

Reiner lifts his arms as Galliard’s hands and the loofah drop lower, lingering over his groin, and Galliard doesn’t protest when Reiner takes hold of his arm and gently moves it away. Galliard turns his face towards Reiner, and he’s wearing that soft, vulnerable look again, his lips faintly parted and his eyes almost closed, and Reiner wishes he could freeze time, stop it at this moment right here, and bottle this moment away to look at later, when the stresses of the world get to be too much. He reaches up to cup the side of Galliard’s face in one hand, and bends down to press their lips together.

Galliard melts against Reiner, his free hand lifting to touch Reiner’s chest, flattening out directly over his heart, and Reiner knows he can feel the way it’s pounding. It feels like it’s trying to escape his chest and curl into Galliard’s palm, a tiny, flickering flame under Galliard’s protection, and Reiner feels suddenly, stupidly close to tears. He has _missed_ this, dammit, missed being close to someone, missed letting himself be open and vulnerable and careening out of control but trusting that they were going out of control together, and he lets go of Galliard’s arm to pull him close. Galliard moves with Reiner, the motion sealing them together, their cocks caught between their bodies and pressed flush, and Reiner’s hand drops from Galliard’s waist to the small of his back, just over the curve of his rump.

Galliard shivers and makes a whining noise in his throat, and Reiner’s arms are suddenly empty as he steps away, breaking contact. Reiner opens his eyes, blinking water out of them, and Galliard reaches around him to turn off the shower. In the sudden stillness, the only sound water gurgling down the drain, Galliard looks oddly small and young, like the shower had washed away the years and turned him into an uncertain teenager, not knowing how to proceed.

Then he shakes his head a little, and when he meets Reiner’s eyes, he’s wearing that slick, confident grin that Reiner is starting to realize is Galliard’s Jaws grin, and he grabs a towel off the rack and shoves it into Reiner’s hands. “Don’t dry off your chest. Just do the bottom half and I’ll meet you on the couch.” 

Then Galliard grabs Reiner’s robe off a hook and leaves, shrugging into it as he does.

Reiner stands there for a moment, dripping and starting to shiver, dumbly holding his towel and trying to figure out what had just happened. That had been… that had been _good_ , good in all the ways he wants and misses, and then the moment had broken, snapped off so cleanly he had practically heard it break, and he has no idea why. He’s gotten used to the idea that Galliard doesn’t want to undress when Reiner is around and can watch him—Jean had been the same way, and Reiner had been able to work around it—but why Galliard keeps breaking things off just as they’re starting to get good is still a mystery. Reiner had thought they’d made some progress, that maybe they were starting to move past this, but clearly not.

Reiner dries off his legs and midsection, as requested, before wrapping the towel around his waist and walking out into the living room. Galliard is sitting on the couch, his bag near his feet, and he grins and pats the cushion next to him. “Sit down.”

Reiner walks over, more reluctant than normal, but does as Galliard asks. “Galliard…”

“Yeah?” As soon as Reiner is settled on the couch, Galliard climbs up onto his lap, straddling him and casually letting Reiner’s robe fall open, and Reiner forgets whatever he was going to say at the sight of him, clean and flushed pink with heat from the shower, the line of hair leading from his abdomen to his cock glinted russet in the shadows of the robe.

“Uh…” Any thoughts of talking about what’s going on between them flutter out of Reiner’s head as Galliard presses up and against him, pushing Reiner’s head back so he can kiss his throat, his lips hungry and burning on his skin. He doesn’t spend long on Reiner’s throat, though, moving down to his chest almost at once, and Reiner can’t help a long, stuttering groan as Galliard starts licking water droplets off his chest and collarbones, his weight settling across Reiner’s thighs and pinning him to the couch.

Galliard takes his time on Reiner’s chest, using his tongue and lips to make sure all the water from the shower is gone, and Reiner is on edge and tenting the towel around his waist when Galliard lists to the side and kisses his pec, directly above his nipple. Reiner sucks in a breath at that, and Galliard glances up, his eyes bright and flashing knowingly, before he bends down and runs the flat of his tongue over Reiner’s nipple.

It’s like someone has sent electricity straight down his spine; Reiner jolts, nearly dislodging Galliard, and both his hands fly up and land on Galliard’s hips, holding him in place. “Fuuuuuuuuuck…”

Galliard doesn’t say anything, but he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat as he laps at Reiner’s nipple again, pursing his lips around it and giving it a quick suck that has Reiner’s knees trembling. He brings one hand up to pinch Reiner’s other nipple, rolling it between his fingers, and Reiner has to rest his head on the back of the couch and stare up at the ceiling. His entire chest feels like it’s on fire, awake and alive and strumming, and he is putty in Galliard’s hands.

A fact which Galliard is all too aware of, the little shit, and he increases his attention, nibbling on one side of Reiner’s chest, kneading and pinching and tugging on the other. All the sensation is going directly to Reiner’s crotch, and he has to spread his legs further, almost disrupting Galliard’s seat, to make room for his growing erection.

He thought he’d been hard before, in the shower. He’d been mistaken. There’s being hard, and then there’s this, where it feels like his cock is trying to strain away from his body, his pulse echoing in his ears and pounding a rhythm through his cock, making it ache so badly that it’s riding the fine line between intense pain and exquisite pleasure, and Galliard hasn’t even touched it yet.

And Galliard doesn’t touch it. He keeps up the assault on Reiner’s nipples, going after them with a single-minded determination that’s both exciting and a little concerning, and fumbles something out of the robe pocket with his free hand before dropping it down between Reiner’s legs. He completely ignores Reiner’s cock, straining and weeping for attention, and instead focuses on his balls, wrapping his hand around them and giving them a long, slow squeeze that feels so good it almost hurts before releasing and pressing the pads of his fingers against Reiner’s hole.

Reiner whines, plaintive and low, and Galliard chuckles; Reiner can feel his lips draw into a smirk around his nipple, his tongue tickling its tip. There’s a faint click of something plastic and Reiner feels lubricant spread against him, and then Galliard’s fingers slide inside. Reiner shifts his weight at the sudden intrusion, but he’s already so geared up from Galliard’s mouth on his chest that he relaxes into it, his ass opening and giving way.

Galliard drives deep, crooking his fingers towards himself, and Reiner’s breath catches in his chest as he hits his prostate with unerring precision. He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how to touch to get the reaction he’s seeking, and Reiner pants through an open mouth as he’s assaulted from both ends, Galliard teasing and stimulating until it feels like there’s a live electric wire connecting Reiner’s nipples to his ass and cock. He tightens his hands on Galliard’s hips, rocking his own hips forward, driving Galliard’s fingers deeper inside him, and lifts his head to gaze blearily down his front.

It’s a beautiful sight: Galliard on his lap, lips wrapped around one of Reiner’s nipples, his cheeks hollowed out slightly as he sucks on it; one hand on Reiner’s other nipple, pinching and rolling it between his fingers, every now and then giving it a sharp yank that makes Reiner cry out in combined agony and ecstasy; his other hand lost to the shadows between them but clearly moving, his fingertips pressing hard on Reiner’s prostate, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Galliard…” It comes out in a soft, breathy moan, and Galliard looks up. He meets Reiner’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth lifts, along with one eyebrow, and he gives the nipple in his mouth one quick, final nip with his teeth before lifting his head.

“Yes, Reiner?”

He sounds so smug and sure of himself, the little brat, and Reiner has to swallow before he can speak again. “Please…”

“Please what?” Galliard punctuates his question by crooking his fingers forward, dragging them right along Reiner’s prostate, ensuring that he won’t be getting any kind of cognizant answer, just another low moan. “Do you want something, big guy? Do you…” Another drag of his fingers, this time with an added nipple twist before he drops his other hand away, and Reiner is putty in his hands. “Have something you want me to do?”

“M-me.” Reiner manages to choke it out, and really, he shouldn’t be so proud of being able to articulate something so basic, and yet here they are. “I want you to do _me_.”

Galliard’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks positively devilish. “You? You want me to do _you_?”

“God, _yes_.” Reiner has been reduced to begging, and while he thinks he should probably be ashamed by that, he’s not. There’s something freeing about being able to ask for exactly what he wants, and he hardly notices how Galliard is reaching into the robe’s pockets again. “Yes, please, fuck me, fuck me right now, _please_ …”

Galliard’s gaze softens, and he smiles a little. “Well, when you ask so nicely…” He stretches up, like he’s going for a kiss, and Reiner starts to close his eyes in anticipation. Galliard’s lips are almost on his, close enough for Reiner to feel his breath across his cheek, when Galliard says, “Too bad I have another appointment at the gym.”

Before Reiner can respond, Galliard slides his fingers out of him, but there’s only a split second before something else comes in to take their place. Then Galliard is getting up off his lap, and Reiner is left sprawled on the couch, his ass still full of _something_ , his hands still reaching for Galliard.

“W-what?”

“Another gym appointment.” Galliard has picked his shorts up from where they were folded on a chair and turns around, the back of the robe acting as a shield as he pulls them up. “You know how work is.”

It suddenly dawns on Reiner what just happened, and he groans as he sinks deeper into the couch, the movement jarring whatever Galliard put in his ass and making him hiss. “Are you _serious_?”

“Very.” Galliard turns back around, looking terribly pleased with himself, and then comes over to stand in front of Reiner with his hands on his hips. With the bathrobe he’s wearing and his shorts back on, he looks like a boxer about to start a match, if boxers were usually concealing massive erections in their boxing shorts. “And while I’m gone, _you_ are not going to touch that plug.”

It’s a plug. Of course it is, and Reiner shifts again, feeling it move inside him. It feels heavy and smooth, like it’s made of metal, and he knows it isn’t from his own meager collection. “Did you bring it from home?”

“I sure did. Your toy collection sucks.”

Reiner shrugs; he knows that’s true. Most of the toys he’d had before had belonged to Jean, and he’d taken them with him when he’d left. He’s starting to come down off the high he’d been riding, his chest no longer burning and his cock no longer aching, but the plug is pressing heavily against his prostate, and he knows it’s going to be a long afternoon. “How long until you come back?”

“A couple of hours.” Galliard leans forward then, and taps one finger on Reiner’s chest. “Leave it in, you understand? If it’s still in when I come back, I’ll make it worth your while. Maybe show you some of the other toys I brought today.”  
Reiner glances at Galliard’s bag, sitting next to the couch, closed and innocent, and the thought that Galliard is carrying around sex toys, sex toys that he’s going to use _on Reiner_ , makes him flush and squirm all over again. “Okay.”

“Good boy.” Galliard leans down and kisses the bridge of Reiner’s nose, where it’s crooked and bent, and there’s something so tender and sweet about the gesture that he’s instantly forgiven for all his teasing. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Sarge is going to need a walk while I’m gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update! I have a lot going on at work tomorrow morning and don't know if I'd have a chance to get this up then.
> 
> This chapter in particular was _heavily_ influenced by Alina's artwork. Thanks for the great inspiration, friend!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard comes back from the gym and things take their expected course.

The afternoon drags.

Galliard tries his best to focus on his clients—this is _important_ , dammit, this is his _career_ , his good job, the one that matters—but as they’re lifting weights and sweating through reps, he finds his mind wandering. As he’s voicing encouragement and guiding flabby, middle-aged lawyers through getting themselves back in shape, he starts thinking about Reiner. Reiner, and the way he kisses. Reiner, and how as soon as Galliard decided it was okay, Reiner couldn’t keep his hands off him. Reiner, and how he’s still the thirstiest little bitch Galliard has ever known, but he’s also _nice_ , way nicer than Galliard deserves, and he says it’s because he understands, that he’s been where Galliard is now, and while Galliard is almost certain that’s bullshit, it’s pretty bullshit, and maybe he needs to believe in some bullshit for awhile. 

He knows that if Reiner knew about him, _really_ knew about him, he’d turn away in disgust. If Reiner knew everything, he’d look at Galliard like he was a pile of Sarge’s shit wiped across the bottom of one of Reiner’s expensive shoes, and that would be the end of it.

But it’s nice to pretend, at least for a little while, that there’s any future to this, that Galliard is something besides a cute young plaything who shows up at Reiner’s apartment and fucks around with him, and as long as Reiner wants to play the game, Galliard will play it with him.

It doesn’t matter, in the end. In the end, Reiner is just going to leave. Like everyone else, Reiner is going to leave.

Between appointments, Galliard has about twenty minutes, and he takes some paperwork to one of the offices to put it into the computer. While he’s there, his phone pings and vibrates in his pocket.

Pulling it out, he sees that someone texted him a photo. Galliard doesn’t recognize the number right away, but when he unlocks his phone, he sees it’s from **Thirsty Bitch Braun**.

At some point, he should change that name in his phone.

The picture is of Sarge, standing in the middle of a flower bed, tulips trampled under his feet, panting and his mouth spread in a wide, delighted doggy grin. There’s a tennis ball at his feet.

Galliard is glad that he’s in the office by himself, because a genuine, delighted laugh bubbles up out of his chest and escapes before he can tamp it down. He gets control over himself quickly, but it’s hard not to be charmed by that picture. Even as he’s looking at it, Reiner sends a message.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: agent of destruction**

Galliard glances at the clock on the wall and at his pile of paperwork, considers both, and then takes his phone in both hands and responds.

**P. Galliard: how’d that happen?**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: some kids were throwing the ball around and it got away from them**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: rolled right past us and into the flowers**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: Sarge WANTED that ball**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: and here we are**

Galliard shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

**P. Galliard: bad dog**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: on the plus side, the kids said we could keep the ball**

That’s all right, then; most people don’t want a ball back after it’s had smelly old dog drool on it.

**P. Galliard: what about you**

**P. Galliard: you still wearing your equipment?**

Reiner’s response is instantaneous.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: YES**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: how do you think Sarge got into those flowers?**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: hard to move fast when you’ve got a doorknob in your ass**

Galliard snorts muffled laughter.

**P. Galliard: it’s not a doorknob**

**P. Galliard: do you want to wear the doorknob?**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: no thanks**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: this one is making my day VERY interesting already**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: how much longer are you going to be at the gym?**

Damn him. Damn Reiner Braun and his earnest, cute good guy act, and damn Galliard for falling for it, hook, line, and sinker.

**P. Galliard: one more appointment**

**P. Galliard: so about two more hours**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: :(**

**P. Galliard: do that again, and I’ll take even longer to get back**

Reiner doesn’t respond for a few minutes, long enough that Galliard actually returns to his paperwork, putting some data in the computer and humming quietly to himself. He’s almost ready to go back out when his phone vibrates again, with another text. He glances at it, and his stomach drops all the way to the floor.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: does your first name start with p?**

Galliard frantically looks back at his early messages, before groaning and slapping a hand across his face. Goddammit, he forgot that Michelle had insisted on everyone listing both their names on the number their clients would use. Galliard had fought against it, and been granted the rare exception of only using his first initial—Michelle hates his first name almost as much as he does, calling it “low class” and “not really the _brand_ we’re going for at this establishment, Gali dear”—but she’d refused to let him get away with not using one at all. But then Galliard hadn’t had any clients for a long time, and Pieck and his other bosses are about the only other people who call or text him, and the initial had completely slipped his mind.

Until now. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

**P. Galliard: why?**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: just curious, that’s all**

_Fuck_. Now Reiner is pulling that non-threatening, sweet innocence thing, and Galliard has to force himself to not run both hands through his hair and mess it up. _Should_ he tell Reiner his name? God, _no_ , Reiner doesn’t need to know about that monstrosity, let alone _call_ Galliard by it, but it’s also right fucking _there_ on the phone, big and bold as day: the letter P.

“For fuck’s sake.” Galliard mutters it out loud, under his breath, before snatching up the phone and tapping out a response.

**P. Galliard: yes**

**P. Galliard: but don’t ask me what it stands for**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: can I guess? :D**

This guy. This fucking guy. Galliard wonders how he does it, how Reiner manages to crash through all his carefully constructed barriers, all the walls Galliard deliberately builds around himself. The walls keep him safe; they keep everyone out, but they also protect the world from the colossal fucking wreck that is the loser Galliard brother. And then there’s Reiner, blithely barging right on in, completely unaware of the enormous shitstorm he’s about to subject himself to, and Galliard knows he should stop him, that he should push Reiner away for Reiner’s own good, but god, if it doesn’t feel great to have someone give a shit about him again. 

**P. Galliard: sure, go ahead**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: I’ll see you later, Patrick**

**P. Galliard: it’s not Patrick**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: damn**

~*~

Galliard’s final session ends and he takes a quick shower at the gym, rinsing off and getting himself in order. He knows he could go right back to Reiner’s place, hot and stinking from the gym, and Reiner probably wouldn’t care—by now, if he’s had the plug in the whole time, he’s likely shaking and desperate for relief—but Galliard can’t stand the thought of smelling bad. Even smelling like the cheap gym soap and not the fancy, expensive shit Reiner stocks in his shower is better than smelling like body odor and stale, dirty clothes.

Once he’s clean, Galliard gathers his things, carefully rearranging everything in his bag so it’s easy to reach, and then slips out the gym’s back door. He’s in a hurry and can’t be bothered to play nice with all the other trainers and employees on his way out. If Franz saw him he’d probably try to engage in conversation, and Galliard simply doesn’t have time for that. Reiner isn’t the only one who has an itch to scratch today.

The subway is crowded, and when an elderly lady toddles on board, Galliard gives up his seat. She smiles at him and slips a Werther’s Original into his hand, and as Galliard stows it in his pocket, he quietly marvels at how old ladies all seem to love him. It has something to do with the red hair, he figures; it must make him look like a lovable little scamp in their eyes.

What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Galliard’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he fishes it out, holding onto an overhead bar and swaying with the motion of the car.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: are you on your way back?**

Galliard grins; sounds like someone left his plug in.

**P. Galliard: maybe**

**P. Galliard: why?**

Reiner doesn’t respond immediately, and Galliard is about to put his phone away when it vibrates again, and a picture fills his screen. One glance at it and Galliard can feel his cheeks flushing and his pupils blowing wide.

Reiner is lying on his bed, on his back. He held the phone over his head to take the selfie and has his head tossed back, so Galliard can only see his face and not much of his body. What he can see, though, is that Reiner has his knees up and his legs are clearly bare, and he’s biting his lower lip, his face taut with tension.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: miss you**

“Is that your girlfriend you’re talking to?”

Galliard looks up, startled, and the old lady is smiling up at him. 

“Uh…”

“You just looked so happy when you got the message.” She opens her bag and pulls out another hard candy, which Galliard takes with numb fingers.

“I don’t… I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Would you like one? I have a lovely granddaughter.”

Galliard stares at her for a beat, his eyes wide, and then looks away. “No, thank you. I’m not in the market for one.”

The old lady studies him, her head canting to one side, a greying lock of her hair falling to one shoulder. “Would you prefer a boyfriend? I have a grandson too, but…” She looks from side to side before leaning in and dropping her voice, as though they weren’t already in a crowded subway car. “He’s not as good as his sister. You’d be better off with her.”

Galliard can’t help it; he lowers his head—directly into Reiner’s scarf, and that heady scent of his cologne—and snorts laughter. “That’s a really nice offer, ma’am, but I think I’m okay.”

She smiles at him, apparently charmed by his reaction, and slips him another candy. “All right. You have fun with whoever you’re talking to, then.”

Galliard waits until she gets up at the next stop and gets off the car before pulling his phone out and sending Reiner a message.

**P. Galliard: on the subway**

**P. Galliard: be there soon**

Reiner’s response is instantaneous; he must have been waiting with his phone in his hand.

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: can’t wait**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: Perry?**

**P. Galliard: not Perry**

**Thirsty Bitch Braun: getting closer?**

~*~

Galliard keeps some hurry in his steps as he climbs the stairs to Reiner’s apartment building, even if the motion makes him ache, deep in his guts. Last night had been a cam night, and since titan23 has disappeared, there’s no one to compete with iamayam and his weird requests. Galliard hates it, hates that he can’t say no and still pay his rent, hates that he has to smile while he’s hurting himself, hates that he misses titan23 and his quiet presence in the cam chat and the way he’d driven up iamayam’s bids, meaning Galliard ha had spent a few glorious weeks of not having to cam so often. But even with the money he’s bringing in from the gym, camming is still how the big bills get paid, and that means a sore ass more often than he’d like, and shying away from Reiner’s touch when his hands drift too close.

Galliard is so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize he’s standing next to the beautiful blonde woman again, and that she’s watching him from under her long, perfectly curled eyelashes until they get on the elevator together. 

“Number fourteen, please,” she tells him, shaking Galliard out of his thoughts, and he hits the number for her before hitting the number for Reiner’s floor. 

They rise three floors before she speaks again. “Hello. My name is Historia. Are you new in the building?”

She offers him her hand, and Galliard stares at it stupidly for a moment—is he supposed to kiss it? is that what rich people do?—before he reaches out and shakes it. “Galliard. And no, I’m just visiting.”

“I see.” She smiles, and Galliard is temporarily dazzled. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself here.”

Galliard shrugs, ill at ease. “I guess.”

What’s he supposed to say to that? Yes, I like your apartment building that’s a million times nicer than anything _I’ll_ ever be able to afford? Yes, I like coming here and pounding one of the residents in the ass, which I’m about to go upstairs and do right now? Yes, I like coming here and pretending I’m actually the kind of person who might be able to live here someday?

Fortunately, the elevator reaches the fourteenth floor and stops, and Historia steps out. “Have a lovely day, Galliard!” She waves at him as the elevator doors close, and Galliard lifts one hand in a half-hearted wave before they’re cut off from each other.

Reiner’s neighbors are _weird_. Beautiful people are weird.

The elevator doors slide silently open at Reiner’s floor, and Galliard steps out. It’s strange, but he feels more comfortable on this floor than anywhere else in the building. Something about coming onto Reiner’s floor settles whatever nerves might be stirring in his gut, whatever anxieties he might be entertaining. This floor feels safe in a way that not a lot of places have felt over the last several years, and that realization is not one Galliard chooses to dwell on. He hurries down the hall and lets himself into Reiner’s apartment.

Sarge is sprawled on his bed in the living room, and he wags his tail when he sees Galliard. He has a soggy tennis ball in the bed with him, and looks sleepy but pleased with himself.

“Hey, good boy.” Galliard toes off his boots and walks over to the dog, crouching next to him and patting Sarge’s head. “Did you take good care of Reiner?”

Sarge’s wagging tail and tongue licking Galliard’s fingers confirms that yes, he _did_ take good care of Reiner. The soft groan coming from the bedroom also confirms that Reiner knows Galliard is back, and because only Sarge is here to witness it, Galliard grins. He bends low of the dog’s head, and whispers in Sarge’s ear, the same way he used to tell Sarge secrets when he was a child. “I like it here, Sarge, and I love you. You’re my very good boy.”

Sarge wags his tail and huffs air out his nose; yes, he knows. He knows he’s Galliard’s very good boy, even if he wasn’t always.

Confident that the dog is content and happy where he is, Galliard stands up and rolls his neck from side to side, listening to it crackles satisfyingly. “You ready for me in there, big guy?”

“God, _yes_.” No hesitation, no doubt in Reiner’s voice, only naked need, and Galliard grins again as he quickly strips down. He folds his clothes and leaves them on the couch, but takes his bag with him as he strolls into Reiner’s bedroom.

Galliard has to pause in the doorway to admire the sight that greets him. Reiner is sprawled across the bed, completely naked, lying on his back with his arms out in a T position, his legs splayed wide and the soles of his feet pointing towards Galliard. He lifts his head when he hears Galliard at the door, and the way his expression brightens when he sees him makes something slow and lazy turn over in Galliard’s stomach. It’s been a long, long time since someone looked so happy to see him.

It doesn’t hurt that Reiner is exceptionally nice to look at, either. Galliard thought he was attractive the first time he saw him, back at the club—he has that rugged, good-natured boy next door kind of charm, brusquely handsome and endearing if perhaps not the sharpest tool in the shed. Those broad shoulders and crooked nose gave the impression of taking a few too many hits on the football field, an impression compounded by how Reiner had seemed so off and distant at the club. He’d acted like he was half-asleep, and Galliard had assumed he was drunk, just another stupid drunk straight boy getting a lap dance as a laugh.

But now Galliard knows better. He’s seen how Reiner has woken up, how every time they’re together Reiner seems sharper and more awake, like a sun gradually gaining strength after a long winter, every day brighter and warmer, shining so brilliant and golden that sometimes Galliard feels like he needs to shield his eyes. It’s happening now, with the look on Reiner’s face, and the way he’s lifting his arms and holding them out, like he expects Galliard to leap into them, and damn if a part of a Galliard doesn’t want to, if a part of him isn’t screaming _yes_ and wanting to plunge into Reiner’s bed with him and never leave.

He holds back, though, and simply smiles, a slow, indolent Jaws smirk, and tosses his bag onto the bed, where it lands near Reiner’s hip. “You still wearing your plug, Thirsty?”

Reiner nods, his arms still held up expectantly. “I took it out to clean up about an hour ago, but it’s been in the rest of the time.”

“Smart guy.” Galliard comes into the room and climbs up on the bed, swinging one leg over Reiner’s torso and crouching over his abdomen. Reiner’s hand immediately fall on Galliard’s hips, but that’s okay. As long as they stay there, that’s just fine. “Why’d you get yourself cleaned up, though?”

Reiner’s thin brows rise in surprise at the question, just as Galliard had hoped they would, and he bites his lower lip. “Uh…”

“Were you hoping for something?” Galliard leans forward, sinking low over Reiner’s chest, sliding his hands up the length of Reiner’s torso until he can run his thumbs over Reiner’s nipples, and enjoy the hitch of Reiner’s breath when he does. “Did you want me to do something to you, big man?”

“Aaaaah…” It’s unfair, really, how easy it is to have Reiner squirming now that Galliard knows the secret about his nipples, but Galliard is still going to take full advantage of the fact. A simple brush with his thumbs and Reiner is already chewing on his lower lip, his hands tightening on Galliard’s hips, his nipples hardening under Galliard’s touch and rising into little peaks. All the better to grab and lightly twist, which has Reiner helplessly lifting his hips into the air, trying to rut against something which isn’t there.

“Hmmm? What was that?” Galliard leans all the way forward, keeping himself propped up on Reiner’s chest, hovering just above Reiner’s mouth. “What?”

Reiner makes a grunting sound, and one of his hands leaves Galliard’s hip to slip onto his back, running up the length of Galliard’s spine and leaving goosebumps in its wake. Dammit, it isn’t supposed to work this way, Galliard is supposed to be the one in charge, he shouldn’t be getting all weak-kneed and trembly from Reiner touching him, he shouldn’t feel his pulse pick up when Reiner looks him directly in the eye and his pupils blown out wide and dark, his golden-brown irises shrinking to a pencil-thin line around all the black. Galliard shouldn’t want to drop down and lose himself in a kiss as badly as he does.

“Want you to fuck me.” It’s said between pants, but Reiner manages to articulate exactly when he wants. His hand is all the way up between Galliard’s shoulder blades by the time he manages it, and Galliard nods, about to sit up and make it happen, when Reiner’s hand glides over the back of his neck and into his hair, and Galliard trembles in both surprise and a sudden, hot rush of desire, and that’s enough of a pause for Reiner to speak up again.

“Want _you_.” Reiner lifts his head then, sealing his mouth against Galliard’s, and Galliard is too shocked to resist. Him? Reiner wants _him_? Not his cock, not his body, not his subservience, but him? The whole package? All Galliard’s idiocy and mistakes and fuck ups, and Reiner still wants him?

No. No, Reiner doesn’t know what he wants, and even as Galliard kisses him back and Reiner tangles his hand in Galliard’s hair, Galliard pushes away the intrusive thoughts rising in the back of his mind, thoughts like _boyfriend_ and _companion_ and even, shy and flickering and almost immediately squelched, _love_. Reiner’s just been wearing a plug for most of the day and is ready for the edging to stop. He’d say anything to get the frustration to ease off a little.

He’d say anything at all.

Galliard sits back up, and Reiner’s hand drops out of his hair and back onto his hip. Reiner looks up at Galliard expectantly, his lips flushed and pink from their kiss, and Galliard claps his hands down on Reiner’s chest.

“All right, then. I can help you with that.” He gives Reiner’s nipples another quick flick, takes a split second to enjoy Reiner’s gasp and how he thrusts his chest up and into Galliard’s touch, and then slips off his lap, settling himself between Reiner’s legs. Reiner spreads them wide, making room for Galliard, and Galliard picks one of Reiner’s legs up and braces it over his shoulder. Reiner lets him, although his hip creaks a little with the motion, and Galliard makes a note to himself to teach Reiner some stretches for his hips during their next session.

With Reiner’s leg up and out of the way, Galliard can see between them better, and he ignores the massive, erect log Reiner has laying across his abdomen to reach down and joggle the bright, metallic ring at the end of the plug. Reiner whines at the motion, and Galliard feels the corner of his mouth tug upwards. 

“Why are you laying on your back?” He touches the plug again, pressing down on it to make it shift upwards, and Reiner whines again.

“Only way… to keep it from driving me crazy.”

“Oh, poor guy.” Galliard eases up a little, letting the plug fall away from where he knows it’s pressing directly on Reiner’s prostate, then pushes down again, sending the plug thrusting directly upwards, and Reiner groans and arches his back, his leg pressing hard against Galliard’s shoulder. “That walk earlier must have been murder.”

He keeps the pressure on the plug for another moment before letting it go, and Reiner collapses back onto the bed. “It _was_.” Reiner stares up at the ceiling, panting and trying to get his breath back. “I had to keep stopping and sitting on park benches.”

“I bet you were walking slower than Sarge.”

“Yeah. How do you think he got that ball?”

The idea of his ancient, decrepit dog almost getting away from buff, hale and hearty Reiner is enough to make Galliard grin, for real this time, and he ducks his head down so Reiner can’t see it.

Galliard takes hold of the end of the plug, threading his finger through its loop, and starts pulling it out a millimeter at a time. He watches as it starts to slide free, as Reiner’s body stretches around it, his skin pulling taut as the bulbous head of the plug presses against him, and Galliard knows he hasn’t seen anything this hot in a long, long time. His cock is very much at attention, erect and throbbing against his abdomen, and when Galliard glances up, he notices that Reiner has lifted his head and is watching him, his eyes bright and wanting. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and Galliard swears he hears electricity crackle through the air… until he pushes the plug completely back in with one smooth motion and Reiner flops back down on the mattress with a moan.

Galliard teases him a few moments more, slowly fucking Reiner wide with the plug, never pulling it all the way out, until he can’t take much more taunting himself. Heat and tension are curled low in his belly, and as fun as it is to reduce Reiner to a whimpering ball of jelly, if this goes on much longer Galliard is going to tip himself over the edge. 

He pulls the plug out and tosses it aside, onto a pile of t-shirts Reiner has thoughtfully left on the bed, before reaching into his bag. Galliard finds the lube he packed—silicone based, a lot better than the cheap water-based stuff Reiner has, he’d have thought a guy with an apartment this nice would know to buy the good lube but no—and a strip of three condoms. He holds the end of the condom strip in his teeth as he makes a show of drizzling lube onto his hand, since he knows Reiner is watching, then reaches down and strokes his fingers along Reiner’s hole. The lube smears across him, and Galliard can feel how Reiner is relaxed and ready, the muscles of his ass flexing and trying to draw his fingers in. Galliard pulls his hand away before that can happen, and gets his cock good and lubed up.

Reiner lifts his head to watch again, and Galliard’s hand slows on himself—for all his time putting on shows for other people, for all that he puts himself out there and uses his body to pay his bills, the simple fact right now is that he _wants_ Reiner to watch him, wants Reiner to be aroused by the sight of him, and it’s a new, heady feeling. He watches Reiner watch him, and when Reiner glances up to meet Galliard’s eyes, that electricity crackles between them again.

Reiner bites his lower lip and opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, but then reaches one hand out instead. “I can get those open.”

Galliard has a moment of vague disappointment, like Reiner had intended to ask something else but then changed his mind at the last moment, but he tosses him the condoms. Reiner grabs them out of the air with an easy, supple grace, rips the wrapper off one, and offers them back. Galliard takes them and slips one free, rolling it onto himself and then lubing up.

And then there’s no more prep left to do, and Galliard shuffles forward, lining himself up. Reiner lifts his hips as best he can, pressing his leg against Galliard’s shoulder, and Galliard wraps his arm around Reiner’s leg to steady it. It’s like holding on to a tree trunk, and while Galliard knows he isn’t exactly a small guy, he feels positively petite when he’s this close to Reiner.

“You ready?” Galliard has his cock gripped around the base and lined up to Reiner’s ass, but he pauses, lifting his eyes and meeting Reiner’s one last time.

Reiner nods, his eyes round and pupils blown wide again. “Please, god, _yes_ …”

Galliard looks away and chuckles quietly. “Just Galliard is fine.” And after that, there’s nothing more to say, and he pushes forward into Reiner.

They both gasp in unison as Galliard slides in, Reiner’s body giving way easily and cleanly, and Galliard has to hold onto Reiner’s leg to keep from trembling so hard he slips right back out. Reiner is hot and tight around him, a smooth sheath for Galliard to fall into, and he probably thrusts in too fast and too hard but he can’t help himself. Reiner doesn’t seem to mind; he groans as Galliard drives home, and his hands scrabble downwards to grip at Galliard’s knees, grasping down on the muscles just above Galliard’s kneecaps.

Galliard pushes in until he’s fully sheathed, sunk right to the base in Reiner’s heat, and then he has to pause for a moment and gather himself; if he kept going, he’s afraid—he _knows_ —he would blow his load too soon. Even through the condom, he can feel Reiner pulsing all around him, his heartbeat throbbing through his entire body and directly against Galliard’s cock, and Galliard has to distract himself or this is going to be over too soon. He turns his head towards Reiner’s leg and kisses his calf, running his tongue across his skin, tasting the tang of Reiner’s sweat and feeling Reiner’s leg hair scrape along his tongue. The muscles of Reiner’s leg twitch, pressing against Galliard’s chest and shoulder, and Galliard wraps his arm around it, holding it tight to his chest.

“Okay.” Galliard isn’t sure who he’s talking to, if he’s talking to Reiner or himself, and he mutters the words against the skin of Reiner’s calf. “Okay. Okay.”

He feels something stroke his knee, a gentle caress, and when Galliard looks down, he sees that Reiner is touching his knee, his broad, thick-fingered hand tremendously gentle, and when he glances up to meet Reiner’s eyes, he’s smiling in such a sweet, kind way that it makes Galliard’s heart break a little. Isn’t _he_ supposed to be the one in control right now? How did Reiner manage to take over?

“Okay,” Reiner tells him before laying flat again, his hand slipping off Galliard’s knee to grip the sheets. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Okay.” Galliard swallows and nods, gripping Reiner’s leg closer against him, and shifts his weight, getting himself in position. Reiner moves his hips from side to side, sighing as Galliard sinks a millimeter deeper, and starts to lift one hand towards his cock.

“No.” Galliard swats it away with his free hand, and Reiner immediately drops it along his side, grabbing onto the sheets with both hands. He looks at Galliard expectantly, and Galliard feels the power shift again, back towards him, and he sits up a little straighter. “No touching for you. You’re going to come just from my cock.”

Reiner shivers deliciously, his muscles clamping along Galliard’s length, and Galliard has to swallow a moan. “All right.”

“So no touching.”

“No touching.”

“Okay.” Galliard takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and starts rolling his hips, pulling out and thrusting deep. Reiner rocks minutely back and forth with every thrust, his head rocking back and the line of his throat exposed. When he’s got his eyes closed like this, Galliard lets himself look Reiner up and down, admiring the lines of his body, his muscles and his form, the planes of his face and the way his body hair manages to be almost invisible and catch the light at the same time. Reiner is easily the most handsome man he’s ever been with, and the kindest, the one who treats Galliard the most like he’s a real person, and as much as he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, Galliard doesn’t want it to. He wants to keep pretending, for as long as Reiner will let him, that this is something that could actually happen, that he’s even remotely good enough for someone like Reiner to take seriously.

Galliard pushes the shadows away, forcing them back where they belong, and concentrates on what he’s doing. Wearing the plug all day and waiting has Reiner on edge, and he’s already jerking and trembling, his breath hitching in his lungs and his cock weeping pre-cum all over his abdomen. He keeps his hands down, though, just like Galliard told him to, and Galliard tries to redirect the aim of his cock, tries to thrust directly into Reiner’s prostate.

Judging by how Reiner’s back arches and almost tosses him off the bed, Galliard finds it on the third try. Gripping Reiner’s leg like a lifeline, Galliard pounds into it, pushing in as hard and deep as he can, the head of his cock hammering up against the spongy mass buried deep in Reiner. Every thrust is punctuated by little gasps and yelps from Reiner, and when Galliard judges him to be on the very edge, he thrusts in and holds it, using Reiner’s leg as leverage and pushing it as hard as he can.

It might not be a very delicate strategy, but it’s an effective one; Reiner nearly launches off the bed, his entire body curling in on itself before he crashes back onto the mattress, crying out with a sound that’s almost musical as he sprays all across himself. The muscles of his ass clamp down, spasming all around Galliard, and he only manages another two or three sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts before he’s coming himself, shuddering and leaning so hard against Reiner’s leg that he hears Reiner’s hip creak warningly. The world grays out for a second, everything subsumed in the sensation, and Galliard turns his head to feel Reiner’s skin against his cheek and breathe in Reiner’s scent.

A few heartbeats, and the world comes swimming back. Galliard fumbles down between his legs and grasps the base of the condom before pulling out. It’s another alarmingly full one, almost overflowing, and he ties it off before any can spill out and tosses it into Reiner’s trashcan by the bed. Then he carefully lowers Reiner’s leg off his shoulder and lays it flat before finding one of the soft t-shirts from the pile. Galliard wipes himself down, then cleans up the mess Reiner made of himself. He managed to spray almost up to his collarbones, and Galliard finds himself leaning over him to reach all of it.

He’s wiping up a stray droplet when Reiner touches his wrist, and Galliard makes the mistake of looking up. Reiner is watching him, and as soon as he catches Galliard’s eyes, he lifts his arms, wrapping them around Galliard and coaxing him downward, and Galliard wants to resist, wants to stay aloof and above it all, but he can’t. He can’t, it’s just too tempting, and he lets Reiner pull him down into a slow, sweet kiss. Reiner’s hand skates up Galliard’s arm, over his shoulder, and into his hair again, and Galliard can’t even protest; he knows his hair is a mess anyway, and there’s something protective and proprietary about Reiner’s hand there that he likes.

After a few moments of kissing, Galliard breaks it off and lowers himself down onto Reiner’s shoulder, his cheek resting on Reiner’s chest, and Reiner tucks his arm close around him, his hand still in Galliard’s hair. Galliard lays on his chest, and listens to the sound of Reiner’s heartbeat, slowing down as he comes down from his orgasm, and for just a moment, everything feels safe and secure, and Galliard has to swallow down the treacherous choking feeling that rises in his throat.

Reiner keeps playing with Galliard’s hair, stroking it flat and smooth again, and there’s something immensely comforting about the gesture. Galliard closes his eyes, listens to Reiner’s heartbeat, and just relaxes. It’s so rare that he actually gets to do this, gets to relax and let his guard down, and he melts against Reiner, his eyes drifting closed.

Galliard wakes up to Reiner gently tapping his shoulder. He lifts his head and wipes at his mouth, realizing too late that he’d been asleep and drooling, and that Reiner’s chest has a little puddle of drool on it. “Huh?”

“Do you have to work tonight?” Reiner doesn’t seem to mind the slobber, simply wiping it away with a sheet, and Galliard groans as he collapses back onto Reiner’s chest.

“Yeah. What time is it?”

“Around six.”

Galliard groans again and forces himself up all the way, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and burying his hands in his hair, trying to force himself awake. He has a shift at the club tonight, and then camming, and then Starbucks tomorrow and another appointment at the gym, and somewhere in there he needs to find time to study and do his Economics homework, and buy food for next week, and…

And Reiner is touching the small of his back as he sits up, moving around to sit next to him on the bed, rubbing little, soothing circles on Galliard’s back. “You can come back here after work is over. If you want to.”

Galliard shakes his head; he _does_ want to, he wants to badly, but he can’t. He can’t let Reiner know he cams, that he’s basically one step above a common street prostitute, that the only difference between him and someone who fucks for money is that there’s the layer of separation provided by the computer screen. If Reiner knew about that, he’d never want to see Galliard again. “It’ll be too late. I’ll wake you up.”

“Okay.” Reiner kisses his shoulder, and the skin under his lips feels like it’s burning, like Galliard has been marked by him. “I sleep pretty deep, you know.”

“I know.” But he can’t. As much as he wants to, Galliard knows he can’t. He lifts his head and looks at Reiner, at his concerned, gentle face, and for a moment, Galliard wants to throw it all away. Everything he’s worked for, everything he’s fought and slaved for, everything he’s wept and sweated and even bled for… he could give it all up. He could throw it all away, and move himself and Sarge into Reiner’s apartment and just never leave. He could let Reiner take care of everything, and be a kept man.  
And then he really _would_ be the prostitute he’s so terrified of becoming, and Galliard leans in to brush his lips across Reiner’s before he stands up.

Time to go to work. Time to make his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1.) The old lady on the train is a gratuitous cameo. Who is she? Why, none other than Grandma Jaeger, of course!
> 
> 2.) The plug Galliard uses on Reiner is [this one](https://www.babeland.com/sex-toys/p/BL1487/njoy/njoy-pure-plug?lref=Srch%7Cnjoy%7Ca%7C4%7Cc%7C0%7C-relevance%7Csearch_page%7C0). Link is obviously nsfw, so don't go clicking it while you're somewhere public!
> 
> Whew! Two sexy chapters in a row, and both of them clocking it at a monstrous number of words! The next one will NOT feature sex, but it will feature Bertolt.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertolt gets to narrate a chapter, and there's a six week time skip.

Annie comes home early, citing an upset stomach and general exhaustion, and Bertolt ends up making dinner while she naps. He normally makes dinner anyway, but he puts extra care into this meal, choosing all the comfort foods Annie loves but usually denies herself in the name of her physical training. Her needs are changing, though, and now isn’t the time to avoid cheese instead of indulging in calcium.

Bertolt makes her a tray once the food—the calorie-rich, nutrient heavy food—is ready, and brings it into the bedroom for her. She’s deeply asleep, though, curled in a ball in the center of the bed, and he doesn’t have it in himself to wake her. The tray goes back to the kitchen, her meal stored in the refrigerator for later, and then Bertolt goes back into the bedroom to make sure she’s comfortable. He gently eases her shoes off her feet and slips the simple, classy jewelry she wears off her wrists and from around her neck—a bracelet with a unicorn charm that he’d bought her for their first Christmas together, a silver necklace with a diamond chip that her father had given her for her high school graduation—and stores them safely in the little dish on her nightstand. Then he tucks a blanket over her and bends down to kiss her temple.

She rousts a little then, turning her head for a real kiss, and Bertolt brushes her hair out of the way so he can give her one. He’s reminded of their first kiss, and how he’d miscalculated the angle and sheer combined sizes of their noses, and ended up knocking his snoot off her cheek and completely missing. He’d been mortified, certain that she would look at him with cool disdain, but she’d just blinked, shaken her head, and, with a faint, amused smile, taken his face in both her hands and held him still so she could lean in and deliver a proper kiss. He’d been completely smitten, and now, three years later, nothing has changed.

His aim for kisses has improved a great deal, though. Consistent practice will do that.

Bertolt leaves Annie to her nap and heads into the living room. It’s Monday afternoon, which means it’s time for his weekly call to Reiner, and Bertolt gets himself set up on the couch. Once he’s cocooned in a cozy blanket and has his earphones plugged in, his computer propped against his knees, Bertolt opens FaceTime and selects Reiner’s name from his contacts.

He’s been low-key worried about Reiner for months now, and that worry has recently kicked up a notch. It’s the new guy, the one Reiner is so infatuated with. On the one hand, it’s been like seeing the Reiner Bertolt has known for most of his life finally peek out from behind the clouds that had scudded over after Jean left. Reiner would never admit it, Bertolt knows, but he’d fallen into a depression after that whole debacle, and it seems like he’s finally starting to emerge on the other side of it. Bertolt is glad for that—there’s only been so much he can do, being all the way across the country, and that had hurt more than anything else, knowing Reiner was suffering and not being able to do anything about it—but he doesn’t like that it seems so connected to the new guy. To Galliard.

Bertolt knows how Reiner throws himself into things. He’s seen it time and time again, and it’s one of the things he loves about him: Reiner’s sheer, unbridled enthusiasm and devotion and commitment to the things he cares about. It was one of the things that drew Bertolt to him, when they were both dorky middle schoolers, the clear and obvious sixth grade outcasts, but Reiner seemed completely unaware of his place in the pecking order. He’d been so bold and brave, so transcendentally unaware of the kind of social boundaries that made Bertolt break out in a cold sweat, that everyone couldn’t help but love him. But for some reason, a reason that Reiner probably couldn’t have articulated back then, he’d been drawn to Bertolt too, and Bertolt knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have survived middle and high school and even university if Reiner wasn’t his best friend. They’re more than best friends at this point; they’re brothers.

And because they’re brothers, Bertolt is allowed to worry and fuss over Reiner all he wants, as long as most of it is digitally. He’s been worrying a lot lately, but trying to keep it as tamped down as he can. He knows Reiner is happy right now, and he doesn’t want to take that away from him. But he’s just so unsure about this Galliard guy, and what his intentions are. He’s seen Reiner fall before, and can tell that he’s falling _hard_ for this guy. Reiner hasn’t been this gaga in a long time, not since Jean, and Bertolt just doesn’t want him getting hurt again.

He doesn’t want to lose Reiner behind those clouds again. Not when he’s just starting to get him back.

Bertolt realizes he’s gotten lost in his own thoughts for a moment, and he shakes his head before clicking on Reiner’s name. FaceTime starts ringing through his earbuds, and seconds later, it connects and Reiner’s grinning face fills the screen.

“Hi!” 

Reiner sounds and looks happier than Bertolt has seen him in ages, and he relaxes a little. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t half expect every call to begin with Reiner being morose and blank-eyed again, and it’s always a relief when he isn’t. “Hey. How goes it?”

“It goes, my man, it goes.” Reiner’s grin broadens, and he stretches an arm behind himself, flinging it over the back of the couch. He looks… bigger than usual, more muscular, and Bertolt raises an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to show off or is that tank top just a coincidence?”

Reiner laughs and has the decency to look at least a little ashamed of himself. “I’m showing off my gains.”

“I thought so.” Bertolt smiles back at him, to show there are no hard feelings. “Tell me about them.”

Reiner prattles on happily about his new workout routine, and Bertolt listens with half an ear. He used to go to the gym with Reiner fairly regularly, but he never developed the taste for weightlifting that Reiner did. He’s always been more of a cardio guy, and still takes long, meandering bike rides and runs whenever he can.

That’s going to have to taper off soon, he realizes, which leaves him alternately wistful and tremendously, rabidly excited.

“What are _you_ so happy about?”

“Huh?” Bertolt shakes his head, startled out of his own thoughts again.

“You’re smiling, and I’m pretty sure it’s not about my recent gains in the gym.” Reiner lifts his arm off the couch and sits forward, his elbows on his knees. “So? What’s going on? Were you thinking about your wedding?”

Bertolt catches the wistful little hint in Reiner’s voice there; he knows how badly Reiner wants to get married, how he thought he’d be busy planning his own wedding right now, but he’s never been bitter about Bertolt beating him to the altar. If anything, he’s been wildly encouraging, and has spent more than a few nights on the phone with Annie, going over shit like flower arrangements and lighting that Bertolt can’t make heads or tails of. He’s handling the food and drinks, thank you very much, and leaving the decorating in better hands. Which, if he’s being honest, basically means letting Reiner use his wedding as a test drive for his own, since Annie’s patience for such things wears thin pretty quickly.

“No. Something else.”

“Yeah? What?”

Bertolt smiles and looks down at his lap, well aware that he probably has the dumbest fucking look on his face right now, but knowing Reiner will understand. “You can’t tell anybody. Not until we’re ready.”

“Yeah, of course not, you know your secret is safe with me.” 

And Bertolt knows it will be, which is how Reiner ends up getting the good news before anyone else. “Annie’s pregnant.”

Reiner’s eyes go wide, and then he whoops so loudly that Bertolt has to scramble and snatch the earbuds out of his ears. Thank god he decided to wear the things, or Reiner might have just deafened him.

Even with the earbuds out and held in the palm of his hand, Bertolt can still hear Reiner loud and clear, his excitement and happiness ringing through. “Bertolt, that’s AMAZING! You’re going to be a dad!”

“Yeah.” Bertolt feels his smile growing, and carefully screws the earbuds back in. “We just found out. She’s about three months along.”

“ _So_ great.” Reiner’s excitement has died down a little, but his eyes are still sparkling, his grin looks wide enough to split his face in half, and Bertolt has a moment where he’s deeply, tremendously grateful to the mysterious Galliard for helping bring his best friend back. “Are you guys changing the wedding plans at all?”

Bertolt shakes his head. “She’s due a few months before it, and you know what a beast she is in the gym.”

“Or she just won’t give a damn and will flip anyone who suggests she’s not perfect on her wedding day.”

Bertolt snorts laughter; for only having met a few times, Reiner has Annie pegged pretty well. “Or that. Possibly both.”

“ _Probably_ both.” Reiner settles back onto his couch, looking so genuinely happy and excited for them that Bertolt feels a simple, powerful swelling of affection for his oldest friend. “I volunteer to watch the baby during the ceremony.”

“Thanks.” Bertolt offers Reiner a lopsided smile, the kind that he knows only a few people have really seen. “I… it feels really good to tell someone about this.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my lips zipped about it. Until you’re ready to tell everyone else.”

“I know you will. Thanks.”

Reiner opens his mouth to say something else, but then turns his head to the side, his eyes narrowing a little. Through his earbuds, Bertolt picks up the sound of a key jingling in a lock, and then a door opening. He watches as Reiner’s face lights up, his eyes brightening, his posture changing as he swivels his body towards the door of his apartment, his smile widening. For a split second, Bertolt almost calls out a hello to someone that he knows won’t be there, because the last time he saw Reiner react like that, it was whenever Jean came into the room and Reiner spotted him.

It’s the look of Reiner when he’s stupidly, head-over-heels in love, and in his heart, Bertolt curses quietly. 

Dammit, Reiner. Not yet. It’s too soon!

“Hi!” Reiner speaks to someone Bertolt can’t see, and then a big grey dog lumbers into view and immediately sticks its snout into Reiner’s crotch. Reiner laughs uproariously at that and starts scratching behind the dog’s ears, bending low over its head and spouting the kind of nonsense Reiner has always spouted whenever he gets the opportunity to spoil a dog, and Bertolt realizes that he’s meeting Sarge.

Reiner sits back up a moment later and formally introduces them. “Bertolt, this is Sarge.”

The dog—Sarge—lifts his head, and Bertolt sees that the dog isn’t grey at all, but only so old that most of his fur has turned silver. There are still spots of yellow on his neck and ears, and Bertolt wonders how old Sarge actually is, to have turned from a yellow Lab into a grey one. However long that must have taken, the dog is clearly loved and cared for, and has been for a long time, and Bertolt’s suspicion regarding Galliard thaws a little.

Reiner keeps playing with the dog’s ears, but lifts his other hand to make a beckoning gesture. “Hey! Come here, I want you to meet Bertolt!”

Some murmured words that Bertolt can’t catch but make Reiner shake his head. “No, it’s fine, you’re not interrupting, come on in.” He glances back at the computer screen, and his color is high and hectic, his eyes sparkling, and Bertolt can’t remember the last time he looked so happy.

Galliard approaches—Bertolt can tell by the way the dog is moving his head, looking back and forth from Reiner to someone outside of the camera’s viewing angle—but lingers on the edge of being seen. Bertolt catches a glimpse of worn blue jeans, a flash of a white shirt, and Reiner keeps reaching for him, trying to draw him in and gently cajoling. Bertolt opens his mouth to quietly excuse himself, but then Reiner gets an arm around Galliard’s waist and draws him down onto the couch next to him.

The first thing that runs through Bertolt’s mind is how he recognizes the face Galliard is making; it’s the face of someone caught up in one of Reiner’s schemes and unsure about how to extricate himself, a face Bertolt has made himself countless times over the years, and almost against his will, he can feel himself thawing further. The next is how _young_ Galliard looks, and Bertolt has to bite down against questions about robbing the cradle.

Reiner is cheerfully oblivious—possibly _deliberately_ oblivious, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s pulled that trick—and grins into the camera at Bertolt. “Bertolt, this is Galliard. Galliard, Bertolt. He’s been my best friend since we were eleven years old.”

Bertolt raises one hand in a little half wave. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”

“Same.” Galliard glances at the camera, and he looks even more ill at ease than Bertolt feels. When he looks at the camera, Bertolt notices how guarded his expression is, how his eyes are almost haunted, and reassesses his initial thoughts about his age. No, this isn’t some dopey teenager Reiner picked up. It takes life beating you down a little to get a look like that in your eyes.

Now that he’s over his initial surprise, Bertolt gets a better look at Galliard. He’s broader and more heavily muscled than Bertolt expected; he knows that Reiner has usually preferred bigger, more muscular guys, but then Jean had been firmly in twink territory. It’s actually a relief to see someone bigger, and someone who clearly works out fairly regularly. Galliard’s tight white t-shirt isn’t leaving much to the imagination, and Bertolt wonders if he’d come over with plans for the evening or if that’s just how he dresses. The red hair is a surprise too; Reiner has never expressed an opinion one way or another for redheads, and that seems like something he would have mentioned. But Galliard is cute, in that youthful, boy-next-door kind of way, even if he does make Reiner look older when he’s next to him.

He’s also not the kind of drop-dead gorgeous fashion model Bertolt had been half expecting, and that’s a relief too. There must be some substance there, or Reiner wouldn’t be so infatuated with him.

Bertolt realizes that while he’s been studying Galliard, Galliard has been checking out him, and he’s suddenly embarrassed by his sloppy, faded t-shirt, advertising a 10K he ran a few years ago, and he’s glad his legs are out of view and Galliard can’t see his grungy sweatpants. If he’d known he was going to be meeting Reiner’s new boyfriend today, he would have dressed better!

Reiner is still playing oblivious, and suddenly gets off the couch. Galliard shoots him a despairing look, and Bertolt feels sympathy bloom unexpected in his heart. Yep, been there before too. It’s one of the things he both loves and hates about Reiner: his complete inability to remember that not everyone is as gregarious and friendly as he is.

“C’mon, Sarge.” Reiner pats his leg, and the dog trundles after him, tail wagging briskly, everything else moving much more slowly. “Let’s go get you a belly rub.”

Galliard starts to stand up too, and Reiner puts a hand on his shoulder and gently shoves him back onto the couch. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got this. You stay and talk to Bertolt.”

Galliard starts to get up again, but then Bertolt sighs and shakes his head. Galliard notices the gesture, and after a moment’s waffling, sits back down on the couch. Reiner and the dog leave, although Bertolt can still hear them off-camera, and he’s left with Galliard.

Galliard glances at Bertolt, then huffs and slouches down on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dammit, Reiner,” he mutters, just loud enough for the microphone to pick it up, and Bertolt bursts out laughing.

“He’s, uh… he’s always been like this.”

That catches Galliard’s attention, and he tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “Has he?”

“Yes. It’s a bad habit.”

Galliard considers that for a moment, then uncrosses his arms and leans forward a little, looking quite a bit friendlier. “So you’ve known each other since you were eleven?”

Bertolt nods, lost in reminiscence. “He came over and sat next to me on the first day of sixth grade.” It’s a story he’s told many times, but it’s one that means a lot to him, and Galliard looks interested, so he keeps going. “I was new to Trost and didn’t know anybody, and I was scared out of my wits.”

Galliard nods back, and for the first time, Bertolt notices a faint Southern drawl in his accent. “They’re not always the nicest here when you’re an outsider.”

“That definitely wasn’t true with Reiner, though. He was settled down right next to me and started talking, and I was so glad to not be alone anymore that I almost started crying.”

“You weren’t going to cry!” Reiner’s voice drifts in over the microphone, and Galliard glances at him over the top of the computer. It’s quick, just a flash, there and then gone, but his expression softens, his eyes warm up, and for that brief instant, he’s radiantly handsome.

_Shit_ , Bertolt realizes, _he has it just as bad for Reiner as Reiner does for him._

That knowledge makes him feel a lot better about Galliard, and when he turns back to the computer screen, Bertolt smiles at him. Galliard looks a little startled at the sudden friendliness, but then hesitantly smiles back.

“I was _totally_ going to cry,” Bertolt shares, and Galliard’s smile grows a little.

“Did he just sneak up behind you and tap you on the shoulder or something?” He glances over the top of the computer again, the corners of his eyes lifting up, and Bertolt realizes he’s going to have to ask Reiner what Galliard is talking about here. It sounds like quite the story.

“Just about. But that’s all ancient history.” There’s no need to tell Galliard the rest of it, at least not right now: he doesn’t need to know how Bertolt was new in Trost because it was a last-ditch attempt at having a life his father could come up with, a final gamble before the state took away his beloved son; he doesn’t need to know that Reiner didn’t have any friends already because he was a weird kid with a desperately poor single mom, whose clothes were tattered and worn and never quite fit him right; he doesn’t need to know about the bullying, and the fights, and how Reiner saved Bertolt’s life during those years, both physically and in all the other ways, the ways that really matter. He doesn’t need to know about high school, and how Reiner had come to Bertolt, terrified and ashamed, and told him in whispered tones that there was something wrong with him, that he thought he was one of those queer boys, and that he’d lose everything if anyone found out. He doesn’t need to know about Reiner’s first kiss, in the tiny closet of his mother’s projects apartment, where he’d pushed against Bertolt and groped at his chest and panted in his ear, and how crushed he’d been when they’d pulled apart and the best Bertolt could do was shrug awkwardly. Maybe, in time, Galliard will know all of these things. But now isn’t the time or the place. 

“All the good stuff happened in college, anyway.”

“Oh?” A slow, delighted smirk spreads across Galliard’s face, like he can’t believe the luck he’s having, and he sits back on the couch, crossing his arms again and lifting one eyebrow. “Like what?”

In the background, Bertolt can hear how Reiner and the dog have gone silent, listening, and that just makes him grin and plant his chin in the palm of his hand. “Do you want to hear about the time Reiner ended up butt naked in the quad in the middle of winter?”

“Do tell.” Galliard is definitely interested, but he’s interrupted by a cry from across the room.

“Bert!” And suddenly Reiner is back on the screen, half-diving across Galliard’s lap, one hand reaching for the computer keyboard. “Okay Bert, really nice talking to you, gotta go now bye!”

“Reiner!” Galliard is trying to keep him from hitting the cut off for the call, and he’s laughing as he attempts to wrestle past Reiner’s arm, and it’s the cutest thing Bertolt has seen in a long time. “Let him tell the story!”

“Nope, I’m pretty sure I hear Annie calling you, you better go check on her!” Reiner is using his bulk to pin Galliard against the couch, a tactic Bertolt knows well from their own horseplay sessions, but Galliard is apparently strong enough to keep him from hanging up. That’s good, Bertolt decides; it’s good that Reiner has someone strong enough to keep up with him, someone he can wrestle without having to worry about hurting him.

“You know, I think I _do_ hear Annie calling.” Bertolt smiles and waves at them; Reiner waves back, but Galliard is still trying to fight his way past him and has his arms busy. “Bye, Reiner, I’ll talk to you later. Bye, Galliard. It was nice meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you too,” Galliard calls as Bertolt hits the cut off and hangs up himself.

He rests his head against the back of the couch and lets out a long breath. So that was Galliard, Reiner’s new love interest, the guy he’s been mooning after for the last two months. He’s not what Bertolt expected, but in a way, that’s good; Jean had been too sharp, too acerbic, too aggressive, and had often shredded away at Reiner’s softer edges. Bertolt understands why Jean is the way he is, and doesn’t fault him for it, but he was never going to be the right guy for Reiner. Galliard, though… there’s a sweetness there that Bertolt hadn’t anticipated. It’s buried, and buried deep, but if anyone can coax it out, Reiner can.

He’s still thinking when Annie wanders into the living room, her hair a tangled mess and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cocoon.

“How long was I asleep?”

Bertolt glances at the clock on the computer. “A couple of hours. I made dinner and talked to Reiner.”

Annie nods and flops onto the couch beside him, and Bertolt puts the computer on the coffee table so he can wrap an arm around her. She snuggles in against his side, and he bends to kiss the top of her head. “How’s he doing?”

“Pretty well, I think.”

“He get things figured out with his fuckboy?”

Bertolt laughs under his breath at Annie’s language. “I think that’s his boyfriend now, even if they don’t realize it yet.”

“Hmmmph.” Annie cuddles closer, seeking out Bertolt’s body heat, and he arranges the blanket around her to make sure she’s completely covered. “Reiner’s kind of dumb sometimes.”

“I know.” Does he ever. “I just want him to be happy.”

“I know you do. You’re a wonderful friend to him.”

Bertolt is touched by that, and kisses her head again. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Let me up and I’ll go get your dinner.”

Annie latches down on him, and even though she’s not working out as hard as usual right now, she’s still frighteningly strong. “Five more minutes.”

“Okay.” It’s a request Bertolt can grant happily. “Five more minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heteros? In MY fanfic?
> 
> It happens about once a fanfic, it'll be back to the regularly scheduled programming next chapter, don't worry.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys talk after Bertolt's phone call, and Reiner gets sappy.

Once Bertolt is safely disconnected and can’t tell _that_ story, Reiner lets out all his breath in a huff and rolls over onto his back, linking his hands behind his head. He still has Galliard squashed against the back of the couch, but he’s not worried; Galliard is tough and the couch is comfortable, and Reiner really only has his legs pinned. He knows Galliard’s legs are strong enough to toss him off if he really wants to. “That went well, Preston.”

Galliard wrinkles his nose, and drums his fingers along Reiner’s chest, playing Reiner’s ribs like a xylophone, apparently in no hurry to throw him off. “That sounds like a gross middle-aged guy who goes to Thailand twice a year to bang prostitutes.”

“Sooooo… not your name?”

“God, no.” Galliard shakes his head and lifts one hand to tweak Reiner’s nose, making him blink. “You’re really bad at this.”

“But I keep trying, and that’s the important thing.” Galliard rolls his eyes, and Reiner just smiles, shifting his shoulders back and forth to get more comfortable on his lap. Galliard moves his hand from Reiner’s nose to his hair, brushing it back and then playing with it, making it stand up. Reiner does his best to not start purring like a contented cat while also quietly hoping Galliard scratches along his belly.

Galliard doesn’t scratch his belly; what he does instead is gently pull and twist Reiner’s hair, drawing it up into little tufts. When he’s done with the hair on Reiner’s head, he moves to his beard, pushing against the hair with his fingertips and trying to get it to stand up. Reiner closes his eyes and lets him, simply enjoying the sensation of Galliard’s hand on his face. He hadn’t realized how starved for affection he’d truly gotten until Galliard had, reluctantly at first but then with increasing frequency and eagerness, started touching him. It isn’t even the sexual touching that Reiner loves the most, although he certainly has no complaints in that department. It’s the simple things like this: feeling Galliard’s firm thighs under his back; Galliard’s fingers stroking along his jawline; Galliard’s other hand resting on his abdomen, splayed out and warm, occasionally drumming along his ribs; the push of Galliard’s belly when he breathes in, pressing against Reiner’s side.

“You told him about me.”

“Hmmm?” Reiner opens one eye; Galliard’s hand has stopped moving on his face, settling down near his collarbone. Galliard is looking down at him, wearing his pensive, thoughtful expression, the one that makes a line form between his eyebrows.

“Bertolt. You told him about me.”

“Of course I did.” Reiner opens his other eye and gives Galliard his full attention. “I told you about him, too.”

Galliard nods, still deep in thought. “You’ve known him for a long time.”

“Almost twenty years now.” Reiner slides his arm out from behind his head and drapes it along the couch’s cushions, letting it rest on Galliard’s arm so he can reach the back of his head and play with the short, bristly hairs there. Once he realizes what Reiner is going for, Galliard even lowers his head a little so Reiner can reach him more easily. “Bertolt is my family at this point.”

“Like brothers.” For a moment, something flashes across Galliard’s face, an expression so complex and layered that Reiner almost can’t parse it, but he’d have to be blind not to see the deep hurt there. He shifts his hand from the back of Galliard’s neck to the side of his face, and after a second’s hesitation, Galliard leans into it, his cheek soft against Reiner’s palm.

“I have my Economics final tomorrow.”

Reiner blinks at the sudden change in subject. “Do you want help studying for it tonight?” 

That would explain why Galliard is here on a Monday night, after all. He’s never showed up on a Monday before; Reiner usually sees him on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, with the occasional Sunday thrown into the mix.

Galliard shakes his head, and Reiner drops his hand back to the nape of his neck. “If I don’t understand this shit now, I won’t by tomorrow morning.” He pauses, and glances across the room at Sarge, pointedly not meeting Reiner’s eyes. “I was, uh… I don’t have to work tomorrow. I took the morning off.”

“That’s a good idea. You don’t want to be stressed before your final.”

“Right.” Galliard is quiet for a moment, looking at Reiner expectantly, but Reiner has no idea what he’s angling for. Finally, just as it’s starting to get awkward, Galliard sighs. “I’m going to spend the night here.”

“You are?” Reiner can’t believe his ears, and he gapes up at Galliard, expecting him at any moment to say he’s joking and probably tweak his nose again. Galliard just keeps looking at him, his jaw set and expression serious, and Reiner can feel a slow, disbelieving grin start to spread across his face. “You’re really going to stay?”

Galliard tilts his head to the side, studying Reiner in the way he does when he’s still deciding if he wants to believe what he’s hearing or not, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He’s smiling as he does, though, and taps his fingers along Reiner’s sternum. “Yeah. And you look like you’re going to start humping my leg right now.”

“But you’re staying!” Galliard has never done that before. He comes over regularly, eats Reiner’s food, naps in Reiner’s bed, and they have sex every time he’s over, but Galliard has never spent the night. It’s always been one thing or another: class, work the next day, shifts at the club, appointments at the gym. For Galliard to spend the night, he must have done some fine-tuning to his schedule, and Reiner recognizes how challenging that can be for him. He’s operated on a very narrow budget himself, and knows how missing a day or even a shift can upset the balance and throw everything into jeopardy. 

Galliard’s finances must be improving, and Reiner pushes away the thought that maybe he’s making enough at the gym so that he doesn’t have to cam anymore. He doesn’t even know if Galliard likes camming or not. They’ve never talked about it, and Galliard doesn’t know Reiner used to watch his streams. 

Reiner realizes he’s grinning stupidly up at Galliard, and abruptly swings his legs around, sitting up. He turns around in one smooth motion and climbs onto Galliard’s lap, straddling his thighs. Galliard makes an amused snorting sound and settles his hands on Reiner’s hips, helping him keep steady as Reiner loops his arms around his neck.

“You really _are_ going to hump my leg, aren’t you?”

“I’m excited!” As though that weren’t completely obvious. Reiner knows he’s being about as subtle as Sarge is when he sees his tennis ball, and that if he had a tail, it’d be wagging so hard it would make his entire lower half shake, but he can’t help it. The idea of falling asleep next to Galliard, and waking up next to him, like a normal couple— _like a couple, like boyfriends_ —fills him with simple, unadulterated joy, and he swoops in for a kiss.

Galliard snorts when Reiner dives down on him, but he’s happy enough to kiss him back, and Reiner coils his arms tighter around Galliard’s neck, sliding forward on his lap and grinding his groin forward. He fully expects that this is a prelude to sex—Galliard has a sex-drive that’s almost exhausting to keep up with, and even as pent up as Reiner was, he sometimes has trouble matching his pace—and is shocked to feel Galliard’s palms move to his hips and gently but firmly push him back. It’s so surprising that Reiner breaks their kiss and looks down at Galliard, his brows knit together in concern.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Galliard glances away, not meeting Reiner’s eyes, and his hands move from Reiner’s hips to rest lightly at his waist. He bites his lower lip, something he does when he’s nervous, and Reiner almost leans in for another kiss to distract him from whatever is bothering him. “I, ah… I have my test tomorrow, so…” A pause as Galliard looks up at the ceiling, at Sarge across the room, at everywhere except Reiner. “So is it okay if we don’t fool around tonight?”

Reiner blinks; with the way Galliard was acting, he expected a request much worse than that. “Yeah, of course. That’s fine.” An ugly, insidious little voice tickles at the back of Reiner’s mind, but he ignores it, pushes it aside so he can focus on Galliard. “You want to stay sharp for your test, I get that.”

“Really?” Galliard’s eyes light up, and he looks weirdly grateful, which makes that voice speak up in Reiner’s mind again, louder and more insistent this time: has Galliard felt like he’s _expected_ to fuck Reiner, every time he comes over?

“Really.” Reiner smiles at him, reaching up to brush that one strand of hair that refuses to stay off Galliard’s forehead back into the rest of it. “Is cuddling and kissing you still on the table?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, that’s fine.” This time, it’s Galliard who stretches up to kiss Reiner, and for a moment, everything is okay again.

But that voice, awakened now and yammering, won’t shut up, and Reiner slides off Galliard’s lap. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Can we order some pizzas?”

“Of course.”

The rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough; Reiner orders two large pizzas and then makes an enormous green salad while they’re waiting for delivery. Galliard sits at the dining room table and keeps Reiner entertained with stories from Starbucks, and occasionally ones from the club, but he never brings up camming, and Reiner doesn’t ask.

After they demolish their food, Galliard settles onto the couch and takes over the tv remote. Reiner expects him to find a sporting match or something similar, but Galliard settles on HGTV and an episode of House Hunters. He looks at Reiner defensively before putting the remote down.

“They play it all the time at the gym.”

“I know.” Reiner settles onto the couch next to him, and after a few moments of the show roll past, Galliard tucks him up under Reiner’s arm and puts his head on Reiner’s shoulder. They watch three episodes together, and Galliard sneers at the choices and budgets of the three couples, shaking his head at their reasons for turning down houses.

“What kind of house do you want?” Reiner asks him in the middle of the third episode.

Galliard snorts his bitter laugh. “You think I make enough money at Starbucks to afford a _house_?”

“You’ll be done with college soon.” Reiner tightens his arm around Galliard’s shoulders and strokes his hand over his hair, much like he’d do to a fretful cat. “It’s not that far away.”

Galliard scoffs under his breath, but leans back against Reiner’s side. He stays quiet for awhile, almost long enough for Reiner to think he’s dismissing the conversation, but as a commercial ends, Galliard speaks up again. His tone is soft, almost shy. “I’d want a place with a yard. Somewhere Sarge could go out.”

“A yard would be nice.” Reiner glances at Sarge, snoozing in his bed, and he desperately hopes Sarge will live long enough for Galliard to get him his yard. “What else?”

“Someplace quiet. With big trees around it.” Galliard glances up, looking at Reiner out of the corner of his eye. “What about you?”

“I want an open kitchen and dining room.”

Galliard chuckles. “For entertaining?”

“Yes. And enough space for at least one good guest room, so people could come and visit if they wanted to.”

Galliard nods. “Sounds nice.”

“Yeah.” The commercial break ends and the show starts up again, and they watch as a snooty couple chooses the house that neither of them likes.

Reiner showers while Galliard takes Sarge out for a pee break, and he’s wearing pajama bottoms and sitting on the bed when Galliard comes in from his own bathroom ritual, his face scrubbed and his hair falling on either side of his face. “Do you need pajama bottoms or anything?”

“Nope, I’m good.” Galliard pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, giving a view that Reiner enjoys deeply, and then, surprisingly, skims out of his pants. It’s the first time he’s stripped down in front of Reiner, and Reiner wonders about the sudden change of heart until Galliard turns around to drape his jeans over a chair, pointedly showing Reiner his ass, and Reiner notices the brand-new, dark blue underwear he’s wearing. 

Ah, Galliard wants to show off, and Reiner bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He scoots to the edge of the bed and stretches his arm out, cupping one of Galliard’s cheeks in his hand and running his thumb over the curve of his ass. “Look at you, being all fancy.”

Galliard swats his hand away, but he looks immensely pleased with himself when he turns around. The underwear does cradle his bulge lovingly, the low rise trunks falling just far enough down his legs to make them look longer, and Reiner can’t wait to get into bed and feel those legs entwined with his. “They’re just Hanes.”

Reiner is suddenly painfully conscious of the Prada logo on his own boxer briefs. “Brand doesn’t matter when you make them look that good.”

Galliard favors Reiner with a sidelong grin, then puts both hands on his shoulders and pushes him back into bed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, I have a test tomorrow.”

It takes a few moments, but Galliard gets them both arranged how he wants them, with Reiner laying on his side and Galliard spooning up behind him, one arm tossed around Reiner’s waist and holding him tight. Reiner doesn’t mind being the little spoon one bit, and links his fingers between Galliard’s, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as he turns off the lights. “What time do you want to get up tomorrow?”

“Nine.” Galliard sounds deeply delighted at the prospect, if already half asleep. “I’m going to sleep until _nine_.”

“All right.” Reiner knows he’ll be awake before then, and can get Galliard up. “Good night, Price.”

“No.”

“Dammit, not even a little?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a hard edit of Jaws, this chapter would get attached to the previous one. It's too short to really stand on its own. However, I had a beast of a week at work and this was all I managed to get out. I thought about not updating this week, but I figured 2400 words of Gallirei is better than 0 words, right?
> 
> Next week will be longer, and introduce the character that absolutely no one wants to see in this fic. Any guesses as to who that is?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the character no one wants to see shows up, and the aftermath.
> 
> And look what little project is officially novel-length now! My baby's growing up!

For the first time he can remember, Galliard leaves a final exam feeling relaxed and optimistic. The test had been an amalgam of everything they’d talked about in class, and everything he and Reiner had gone over during their study sessions, and he feels weirdly confident that he’d done well. The professor had even met his eyes when he was handing it in and nodded, a faint smile on her face, and rather than sending Galliard into a spiral of anxiety and self-doubt, he’d nodded and smiled back.

He hadn’t used the whole testing time either, and decides to stop by the kiosk Starbucks in the student union. He can use his discount and grab a coffee for Reiner and bring it home to him. It won’t be much, but it’ll be something.

He’s waiting in line and silently judging the baristas working as being too slow when he hears a familiar tapping sound behind him, and then a warm hand slipping in around his elbow.

“Hi!”

Galliard turns and Pieck is standing next to him, holding his arm and beaming up at him. “Hey.”

“I haven’t seen you in awhile. Is everything okay?” She doesn’t look particularly worried. If anything, she looks smug, like a cat that just stole a pack of hotdogs out of a grocery bag and clawed into it before their owner noticed.

“I’m fine.” Even as the words leave his mouth, words he’s said countless times, Galliard realizes that, for once, he actually means them. For the first time in years, he’s feeling relaxed and unburdened, like he doesn’t have the entire weight of the world trying to crush down on his shoulders. He’s gotten enough sleep for once; he’s had a good breakfast and has prospects for a filling lunch too; he’s wearing new underwear that aren’t threadbare and tattered, so his jeans aren’t rubbing directly on his ass and upper thighs; Reiner has never asked for his scarf back so Galliard is still wearing it, and has at least one nice thing on that doesn’t make him look like a broke derelict; he feels confident that he just passed a final exam that, a few weeks ago, he was certain he was going to fail; he’s going back to Reiner’s apartment after this with a gift of coffee and good news.

That’s the crux of it, and Galliard can finally admit that, if only to himself: he’s going back to Reiner’s apartment, which feels more like home than his own shitty, empty apartment ever has, and Reiner and Sarge will be waiting for him, and he’ll feel… wanted. He’ll feel like someone wants him around, like someone _cares_ , and Galliard ducks his chin down, hiding his smile in the folds of Reiner’s scarf. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you said that.” The line shuffles forward, and Pieck keeps her arm in his, casually cutting the line and not caring one bit. Galliard knows that no one will question her about it, and even if they did, she’d turn huge, wounded eyes on them and suddenly have much weaker legs. “You look good, Gali. Happy.”

“I’m pretty sure I just passed my final, of course I’m happy!”

“Is that the only reason?” She reaches up and plucks at his scarf, at Reiner’s scarf, and Galliard brushes her hand away. “Are you _sure_ that’s the only reason?”

“Pretty sure.” But he can’t lie to Pieck, she sees right through him, and Galliard flashes her a quick grin. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Reiner.”

“Ah, yes. _Reiner_.” Pieck gives his name a little lilt, a little trill, and Galliard makes a face at her. “Will I ever get a chance to meet him?”

“Why do you want to?” Galliard knows the answer, even before she gives it.

“Why wouldn’t I want to meet your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” He’s just the guy who Galliard spends all his precious free time with; the guy who helped him get more clients at the gym, so Galliard can work fewer hours and actually _have_ free time; the guy who lets him stay at his apartment and feeds him and takes care of his dog, and if he expects sex every time Galliard comes over, that’s not a high or necessarily unpleasant price to pay; the guy whose arms Galliard woke up in this morning, curled tight against him and with his head on Reiner’s chest, and he’d woken up slowly to the soft, steady beat of Reiner’s heart and felt, just for a moment, protected and secure and simply, uncomplicatedly happy.

But no, Reiner isn’t his boyfriend. A burning sun like Reiner doesn’t have a need for a sucking black hole like Galliard, someone who would only steal his light and warmth and give nothing back.

“Does he know that?” Pieck asks, giving Galliard’s arm a gentle squeeze and startling him from his thoughts. “Because if someone smiled like you just did when they heard my name, I’d think he was my boyfriend.”

“Are you still dating the guy with the pervert beard?” When in doubt or cornered, change the subject.

Pieck wrinkles her nose. “No, not really. He has massive family issues he needs to work out before he’s ready for a relationship.” Then her expression smoothes out, and she winks at Galliard. “The sex was great, though.”

“Pieck! TMI!”

~*~

Galliard takes the subway back, Reiner’s iced coffee kept cold in Galliard’s battered old canteen, and he finds himself humming quietly as he takes the elevator—thankfully free of Historia today—up to Reiner’s floor. He took the morning off from work, and now he has most of the afternoon free. He’s looking forward to just hanging out on Reiner’s couch, maybe playing lazily with Sarge, maybe playing with Reiner, and then going off to a gym appointment—another one, his sixth regular client—in the evening. Really, he’d be completely okay with curling up next to Reiner in his bed and taking a nap with him, and if they moved around in their sleep and Galliard ended up as the little spoon, well… he wouldn’t complain about that. No, he wouldn’t complain at all.

Galliard slips his key into the door’s lock, but it slides in too easily, like the door isn’t locked at all. Galliard frowns, and when he tries to turn the key, he doesn’t need to, and the door swings open silently. Reiner’s voice drifts out, from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and his voice is raised, almost shouting, and Galliard can’t help an instinctive cringe. The temptation to leave is almost insurmountable, but Sarge is in there. He can’t leave Sarge to whatever is happening—he can’t leave Reiner, either—and Galliard steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“… you can’t just let yourself in here whenever you want, I’m working and I don’t need the interruptions!”

Galliard freezes in the entryway, his keys almost falling out of his hand. Has he been bothering Reiner? Is that directed at _him_? Reiner gave him this key, and told him to just let himself in to drop off Sarge when he needs to! He has permission!

Another voice, feminine and raspy with age, floats down the hall to his ears. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d just _call_ more often, Reiner! I never hear from you and then I _worry_ and have to come here to check on you!”

“I’m almost thirty years old, Mom, I can take care of myself!”

Galliard relaxes a fraction, although his shoulders and neck still ache with sudden, nervous tension. Reiner wasn’t talking to him; he’s still allowed to be here. He perhaps _shouldn’t_ be here right now, but Reiner isn’t angry with him, or shouting at him. The skin around Galliard’s eye sockets tingles, the flesh of his face creeping with old, almost forgotten memories, but he’s not a scared child anymore. He can handle whatever is happening in there.

Galliard squares his shoulders, drops his keys into the little dish alongside Reiner’s, and walks into the living room.

Reiner’s back is facing him, and even from a distance, Galliard can see how stressed he is. Reiner usually holds himself with an easy, casual confidence, comfortable with his size and his place in the world. Today, though, his shoulders are hunched forward like a chastised child’s, his spine rigid and awkward, his weight shifting from foot to foot. A woman with iron-grey hair stands next to him, and when she sees Galliard, her eyes narrow and her diatribe shuts off. For just a second, she shoots Galliard a look filled with deep, unmistakable venom, so hateful that he takes a step back.

The last person to look at him like that was his father.

But then the look is gone, barely hidden behind a mask of cool hostility, and the woman touches Reiner’s bicep. Reiner flinches away from the touch, and Galliard takes a step forward, one hand lifting towards Reiner, wanting to touch his back, wanting to reassure him, wanting to take that hurt away. He doesn’t move fast enough, though; suddenly the woman has stepped around Reiner and is swarming all around him.

“Reiner, who’s this? Why is he in your apartment?”

Reiner turns, and for just a second, his eyes light up when they fall on Galliard. He straightens his shoulders, drawing up to his full height, and closes the distance to the woman in two long strides, putting his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly steering her away from Galliard. The gesture is clearly protective, clearly one he’s done before, and Galliard feels a weird spike of gratitude in his chest. The woman is almost as tall as he is, and projects herself like a force of nature. “This is Galliard, Mom. He’s a friend of mine.”

Reiner’s mother narrows her eyes, looking around her son’s broad shoulder. “Why is _he_ allowed in your apartment and I’m not?”

Reiner sighs. “His dog is here.”

“Ah.” She sniffs and glances over to where Sarge is curled in his bed, trying to make himself small and unobtrusive, so the people making noise won’t notice him. “Yes. _That_.”

Galliard bristles and steps around them, moving to Sarge’s bed and dropping to a crouch beside him. Sarge puts his head on Galliard’s knee and whines softly, and Galliard strokes his ears as comfortingly as he can. Sarge doesn’t like shouting any more than Galliard does, but he can’t understand what’s going on. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.”

“His name is Sarge, Mom.” Reiner’s voice is tight and clipped, every word enunciated and as serrated as a blade. “I told you that.”

Galliard looks up just in time to catch another spiteful glance from Reiner’s mother, but then her brow smoothes out and when she turns back to her son, she has a bright, aggressive smile on her face. She bears an uncomfortable resemblance to a shark, and Galliard shifts onto his other knee, putting himself between her and Sarge.

“Did I tell you about Mrs. Dreyse in my Bible study class?”

Galliard flinches, and Reiner sighs, his shoulders slumping again. “No, Mom.”

“She brought her daughters to study.” Reiner’s mom is suddenly bright and bubbly and sounds much younger. If he hadn’t seen her show her true face moments before, Galliard would think she’s just a typical, chattery mom. Or he would, if she wasn’t pointedly standing between him and Reiner and keeping one hand possessively on her son’s arm. “That older one is a troubled soul who just needs to find the light of Our Lord, but the younger one is lovely. So sweet and shy! And such pretty eyes!” She steps in closer, her smile growing predatory. “Her name is Janelle. She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

Reiner scrubs a hand over his face, stepping back to get out of her grasp. It doesn’t work; she just steps closer, her grip never leaving his arm. “I’m not interested in being set up. You _know_ that.”

“But Reiner, honey, how much longer are you going to wait to find someone? You’re not getting any younger, and if you’re going to meet a nice girl and give me some grandchildren, you need to get started soon!”

“I don’t want to meet a nice girl.” Reiner’s voice has gone as tight and rigid as his shoulders, and Galliard watches the little drama before him with sick, morbid fascination. 

“A bad one, then! The older Dreyse girl is single too, and I’m sure once she’s a mother she’ll come around to the One True Word and settle down. She just needs a man to guide and provide for her.”

“Mom.” In his efforts to escape, Reiner has twisted around and Galliard can see the side of his face, and how his jaw is clenched so hard it’s making the cords stand out in his neck. Without realizing what he’s doing, Galliard stands up and moves closer, coming up behind and to Reiner’s side. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” For just a moment, her voice is innocent, truly questioning, and Galliard has to wonder if she even realizes what she’s doing. But then he puts his hand on the small of Reiner’s back, and the look she shoots him is positively murderous. Yeah, she knows. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and Galliard takes a step closer, coming up beside Reiner, and flashes her his brightest and best Jaws smile.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He holds his free hand out to shake, and sees Reiner watching him from out of the corner of his eye. “My name is Galliard, and what should I call you?”

She glowers at him for another split second, and then offers him her hand, meeting his false smile with one of her own, equally high in wattage, just as shitty. “My name is Karina Braun. I’m Reiner’s _mother_.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Braun.” It feels like she’s trying to crush his fingers as she shakes his hand, but Galliard grits his teeth and endures it.

“Oh, it’s _Ms. Braun_ , thank you.” She gives Galliard’s hand one last brutal squeeze before dropping it. “So are you Reiner’s new roommate?”

“Roommate?” The question comes from left field, and Galliard glances up at Reiner for help, but Reiner has his hand on his face, blocking himself from view. Galliard is on his own. “No, I’m just… visiting.”

“You’re not his roommate, but you leave your dog here?” She looks pointedly at Sarge, still cowering in his bed. “And with his own bed, no less! You must be here an _awful_ lot!”

“He’s my personal trainer, Mom.” Reiner speaks up. “And my friend.”

It’s shocking how much it hurts when Reiner describes him as his friend and not his boyfriend, but Galliard pushes that aside for now.

“You’re not planning on getting another _roommate_ , are you, Reiner?” Ms. Braun sounds suspicious now. “You had that last one for so long, that Gene, and…”

“ _Jean_ , Mom.” Reiner’s voice has gone tight and hard again, and Galliard presses his hand flat against the small of his back. “His name is _Jean_ , you know that.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Gene, _Jahn_ , it really doesn’t matter now, does it? You don’t have a roommate anymore and now you’re able to entertain properly again, and you _still_ don’t have a girlfriend! And I come over here and it looks like you’re going to get _another_ roommate, and you don’t need one!”

“I’m not Reiner’s roommate.” Galliard feels like he needs to break in and clarify this, and ignores the way Reiner’s back muscles go rigid under his hand. “I have my own place.”

“Good. _Good_. And I’m sure you’ll be wanting to keep that, won’t you?”

Speaking up was a mistake; now all Ms. Braun’s attention is on him, and Galliard wishes he could slink backwards behind Reiner and let him deal with his mom. But he brought this on himself, and he’s going to own it. “I don’t have any reason to move out.”

“Then you should take your dog and stop lingering here, don’t you think?” She smiles, and it’s like suddenly seeing a shark fin break the surface of the water. “You see, my _boy_ doesn’t always know what’s best for his own interests. He keeps getting _roommates_ when he should be looking for _girlfriends_ , good Christly women who can start giving _him_ children and me _grandchildren_ , and all this nonsense about having fun with the boys is just _childish_ , don’t you think?”

Galliard glances up at Reiner, shocked into silence by his mother’s onslaught; Reiner’s jaw has gone tight again, and the muscles of his back under Galliard’s hand are hard as rocks.

Ms. Braun interprets silence as acquiescence, and continues pressing her attack. “We all have to grow up sometime, and Reiner is going to be thirty this year, so it’s time for him to _put away_ this silly behavior and start thinking about his _future_. There’s absolutely no reason for him not to have a wife by now, none at all! He needs someone who can give him _children_ , someone who can keep the Braun family name going, someone like Ja—“

“MOM!” 

Galliard jumps and instinctively cringes away, his hand leaving Reiner as his shoulder rises towards his face. He’s never heard Reiner raise his voice like that, never heard him sound so furious, so coldly livid, and he steps backward, out of the line of fire. Old habits die hard.

Even Ms. Braun looks frankly flabberghasted, her diatribe paused as she stares at her son with disbelief. “R-Reiner?”

“Mom, get out.” Reiner’s volume is back to a normal level, but his tone is pure steel, brooking no room for disagreement or compromise, and Galliard realizes he’s seeing Reiner’s courtroom persona for the first time. It probably shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, and yet here they are. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you need to leave.”

For an instant, it looks like she’s going to fight anyway, and Galliard retraces his steps, getting close to Reiner again but not touching him. But then her face crumples, and for just a moment, she looks terribly lost, confused and lonely, and if she hadn’t been being so horrible just moments before, Galliard might even feel sorry for her. 

It doesn’t last long; her expression hardens again, and she lifts her chin, raising her gaze to meet her son’s. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore, Reiner. I just don’t know where my little boy went.”

“He grew up, Mom.” Reiner’s voice is still steady, but Galliard can see minute shivers running through his shoulders.

“Grew up into someone I barely recognize.” She brushes past them, and Galliard smells expensive perfume trailing behind her. She picks her bag up from the kitchen table and stomps towards the door. It almost seems like she’s going to make a clean exit, but then she turns at the last moment and pins Reiner under her gaze. Galliard shrinks behind Reiner from the force of it, but even from across the apartment, he can see that her eyes are wide and shining with unshed tears. “I won’t be here forever, Reiner. And when I’m gone, you’ll be all alone, with no one who loves you.”

And then she’s gone, slamming the door behind her. The door chatters in its frame from the force of her slam, and Galliard finds himself wincing again. From his bed, Sarge whines, his tail tucked close to his body as he curls into the smallest ball he can manage.

Reiner makes a soft, despairing sound and lurches towards the couch. The cool, competent lawyer is gone, banished to wherever he came from; Reiner is visibly shaking as he collapses, his legs going out from under him like they’ve lost all their muscle and coordination in the last few moments, and he bends low over his knees, burying his face in both hands.

Galliard stays standing, caught between the kitchen and the living room, caught between Reiner and his dog. Sarge whines again, lifting his head up in the sudden silence, and Galliard almost goes to him.

Almost. He even takes a step in Sarge’s direction. But then he glances at the couch, and how Reiner is trembling everywhere; how he’s hunched in on himself and protecting all his sensitive parts; how he’s physically protecting himself while also guarding his heart, and probably not even aware of what he’s doing, and Galliard swivels away from Sarge’s bed and heads towards the couch.

He settles on the couch next to Reiner, close enough that their hips, their thighs, are touching, and awkwardly pats him on the back. It doesn’t feel like enough, it feels like putting a bandaid on a gaping, spurting wound, but it’s all he knows how to do. It’s what had been done to him, a long time ago, and Galliard swallows down a lump in his throat at the sudden memory.

Reiner is still beside him for a moment, still except for the trembling that won’t stop running through his shoulders, then he sags to the side, leaning up against Galliard. He almost knocks Galliard over—he’s _heavy_ , heavier than he looks, and Galliard distantly makes a note to weigh him the next time they’re at the gym—and Galliard wraps an arm around him. At first it’s just to keep them both from toppling over, but then Reiner turns his face into his shoulder and makes a little snuffling sound, and Galliard finds himself holding him, getting his other arm in on the action and curling it around him, and that’s okay.

That’s just fine.

“Sorry.” Reiner’s voice is muffled against Galliard’s shoulder. “I didn’t know she was coming over today.”

“It’s okay.” Galliard shifts a little, turning so he’s facing Reiner, and Reiner responds by slumping further down, until he’s almost in Galliard’s lap. Galliard lets him, and starts stroking his fingers through Reiner’s hair. “She is… she’s something else.”

Reiner snorts, a sound so like Galliard’s own inflections that Galliard almost bursts out laughing. “That’s a kind way of putting it.”

“Does she… does she know you’re gay?” _Is_ Reiner gay? Galliard feels like he’s suddenly sailed out onto uncharted waters; they’ve never talked about this.

“She knows.” Reiner sounds exhausted, like this is something he’s had to go over again and again, without ever finding a resolution for it. “She just doesn’t believe it. She thinks if I meet the right girl, I’ll suddenly turn straight and start pumping out grandkids for her.” He shakes his head, scrubbing his face back and forth against Galliard’s side. “If she admits that I’m gay, then that means I’m an abomination that’s going to hell.”

Galliard grimaces, his fingers stilling in Reiner’s hair. “My… my dad… he’s the same way.”

He hasn’t talked about this with anyone. Not in seven years, not since he left home and came to Trost. He’s tried to not even _think_ about it, but telling Reiner feels… it feels right. Reiner will get it; he’ll understand. Galliard sighs, and something shifts in his chest, a feeling of weight dropping away. Even that one sentence lets him breathe better, like he’s getting fresh air for the first time in years.

Reiner groans and slumps the rest of the way down, ending with his head in Galliard’s lap. He rolls onto his back so he can look up and see Galliard’s face, and Galliard is just not going to mention how Reiner’s eyes are glassy and wetly shining, looking almost exactly like his mother’s had as she’d stormed out of the apartment. “I’m sorry.”

Galliard shrugs. “He’s a piece of shit anyway.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Okay.” Reiner closes his eyes and is quiet for a moment, and Galliard resumes playing with his hair. It’s getting longer, starting to part down the middle, and pretty soon he’s going to have floppy, 90s boy band hair, the way Galliard’s gets if he doesn’t slick it backwards.

“She isn’t being awful on purpose.” Reiner speaks up again after a few minutes, and he sounds calmer now, less shaky, and he’s not trembling against Galliard’s thigh anymore. “She’s really doing what she thinks is best.”

“That seemed pretty purposefully awful to me.” Galliard isn’t in any position to judge anyone else’s parents, but he’s going to anyway. He muses that Karina Braun and his father would probably get along swimmingly, and be able to spend all day complaining to each other about how disappointing their sons are.

Reiner shakes his head, thus proving once again that he’s a much better and stronger person than Galliard can ever be. “She hasn’t had an easy life. She gave up everything for me.”

“And you’re supposed to give up everything now for her? That’s a bullshit deal.”

Reiner is quiet for a moment, and when he goes on, it’s like he hadn’t even heard what Galliard had said. “Her family ditched her when they found out she was pregnant. Can’t embarrass them in front of the people from church, you know? Can’t let anyone know that she’s a heathen sinner pregnant with a bastard baby.”

Galliard, whose parents weren’t married when his mother first found out she was pregnant with his brother, makes a soft sound of disapproval but doesn’t interrupt.

“And my dad didn’t want anything to do with it. He sent her a couple hundred dollars and told her to get an abortion.” Reiner smiles thinly, and Galliard smoothes the wrinkles away from around his eyes with gentle fingers. “But she couldn’t do that, right? Being pregnant with a married man’s baby is less of a sin than murder, even if no one was watching anymore.”

“I’m glad she didn’t.”

Reiner opens his eyes at that, and when he smiles up at Galliard, it’s more genuine this time. “I’m glad she didn’t either.”

Galliard can’t help but smile back.

“She had to live in government housing after that; it was all she could afford. She had a scholarship to a religious school downstate; had to give that up. Had to work her ass off to afford anything, and I’ll give her credit, I never went to bed hungry.” Reiner closes his eyes again and turns his face towards Galliard’s stomach. “I’m pretty sure she did, though. A lot.”

Galliard hums softly; his mother had done the same thing from time to time, usually at the end of the month when the food stamps were gone and it was a few days before they got any new ones.

“She gave up _everything_ for me.” Reiner’s voice is muffled, but the hurt in it broadcasts loud and clear. “Her family, college, dating… she never did any of that. She worked all the time to provide for me, to make sure I got the kind of education and job that she could never get.

“And I did.” Reiner makes a broad, all-encompassing gesture, and Galliard takes it to mean the apartment, the job, the clothing with name brands on the labels and no areas worn thin with wear. “I did it, I worked just as hard as she did, and now I’ve got my job, and this apartment, and I bought her a condo, and it should be _right_ now but it _isn’t_ , and there’s _nothing I can do to fix it_!”

He rolls over to his side at the last word and slings an arm around Galliard’s waist, his face pressed against Galliard’s stomach, and Galliard can feel the heat of his cheeks. He smoothes one hand down the side of Reiner’s head, over his neck and shoulder. What else is he supposed to do here? Marcel would know what to do—hell, even Pieck would know what to do—but comforting someone has never really been Galliard’s forte. He doesn’t have the natural instincts to know what to do in these kinds of situations.

From across the room, Sarge heaves himself up and comes trundling over. He plops down next to the couch and lays his muzzle on Reiner’s waist, and after a few moments, Reiner takes his hand away from his face and lays it on Sarge’s head. Sarge whimpers, soft and low, and licks Reiner’s arm.

Stupid dog. It’s so easy to be comforting when you’re a dog.

“I think…” Galliard starts, and then stops. What does he think, and why would Reiner care what he thinks? Reiner has his life so much more together than Galliard does, he’s successful and secure and not just scraping by, there’s no reason at all for him to care what Galliard thinks! 

Except that Reiner has turned his head, and is looking at Galliard with wide, trusting eyes, and Galliard swallows down his fear and continues.

“I think that you can’t fix her problem because there’s nothing that needs to be fixed. You can’t fix something that wasn’t broken to begin with.”

Reiner takes a deep breath, dragging air in through his bent, damaged nose. “Even when your son is a big dumb faggot?”

Galliard tweaks his ear, hard enough to make Reiner jump. “Don’t call yourself that.” His voice is terse and irritable, leaving no room for argument. “Matthew 7.2: For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

Galliard grew up in _Liberio_ , he’s had the Bible used against him as a cudgel his whole life. How ironic that it took him moving to Trost to find a time to use it himself.

Reiner looks up at him in surprise, one hand lifting to rub at his ear, but then he must recognize something in Galliard’s face, because he nods and drops his hand back to Sarge’s head. “Okay.”

Galliard huffs, annoyed with both Reiner and himself. When did he start _caring_ so fucking much? He was never supposed to _care_ , this was only supposed to be about sex and fun and eating Reiner’s food whenever he could. And now here he is giving a shit, and actually _wanting_ to help Reiner—him! helping Reiner! it’d be sad if it wasn’t so laughable—and Galliard has no idea when things deviated from his planned course and went this way, and yet here they are, and when Galliard makes a mistake, he fucking _commits_ to it.

“I just think there’s nothing wrong with you.” Galliard lifts his hand off Reiner’s head and crosses his arms over his chest, turning his head to the side and pointedly watching Sarge. “You don’t need to be fixed because you’re not broken.”

And Galliard knows broken. It’d be impossible for him not to, after living it for so long.

Reiner is quiet for a few moments, and Galliard refuses to look down and meet his eyes. Then, rising from the couch like an eldritch horror awakened by nuclear testing, Reiner lifts his arm and touches the side of Galliard’s face. Galliard tries to turn his head away, but Reiner is insistent, and he probably doesn’t resist as hard as he could have. He lets Reiner turn his head around, and Reiner is looking up at him and giving him the full wattage of a grateful, sappy smile, and it’s so brilliant and beautiful that Galliard almost feels scorched for having it directed at him.

Reiner props himself up, lifting off Galliard’s lap, and stretches up to kiss him. It’s gentle and sweet and it’s something far better than Galliard deserves and he knows it, but god _damn_ if he doesn’t want it. Goddamn if he doesn’t _want_ to deserve it, wants to be inside the warmth and light of Reiner’s sun, because it feels like he’s waking up every time it’s directed at him, like he’s growing and blooming and becoming the kind of person Reiner believes he could be.

“Thanks.” Reiner’s hand on his face is a caress, his lips still within easy kissing distance. “I needed to hear that.”

“Wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true.”

Reiner hums quietly and kisses him again, and Galliard lifts his own hand and puts it on Reiner’s chest, where he can feel the throb of his heartbeat.

“You know I don’t expect you to have sex with me every time you’re here, right?”

Galliard freezes, his hand unconsciously tightening on Reiner’s shirt, pulling it a knot. He leans away, so he can see Reiner’s face, and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. “What?”

Reiner looks impossibly serene for the bombshell he just dropped. “I like you, Galliard. I like spending time with you. If you want to just come over here and hang out and watch tv with me, that’s fine. I’m not expecting you to drop your pants and perform every time we’re together.”

Galliard’s mouth is dry, and he has to swallow a few times before he can answer. “What… what gave you that idea?”

Reiner just shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“You, uh…” Galliard swallows again. “You _like_ having sex with me, right?”

He hates how much Reiner’s answer suddenly means to him, and he hates how his voice cracks at the end of the question.

“Yes.” Galliard’s stomach drops out from under him in relief, and then Reiner leans in for another kiss and it flips over from its new position near his knees. “I like it a lot. But I like _you_ more.”

“Pfffft…” Galliard pushes Reiner back a little, if only so he can turn his head and hide the stupid grin he knows is spreading across his face. “Reiner, that’s gay.”

Reiner bursts out laughing at that, loud enough that it startles Sarge and he lifts his head off his waist in alarm, and it’s like a balm, soothing over all the tension and stress of the afternoon. “That’s me. Big gay Reiner.”

“ _So_ gay.” And then Reiner grabs Galliard around the waist and drags him down onto the couch with him, and it takes a few moments and some flailing, but they get themselves arranged so they’re face to face, with Reiner’s arms around Galliard and Sarge’s nose pressing into the small of his back, their legs entwined, and all Galliard wants, in this moment, is for it to last. He wants to bask in Reiner’s light for just a little bit longer.

“I’m sorry for one other thing, too.”

“Hmmm?” It’s hard to focus on what Reiner’s saying when he’s dropping quick, fleeting kisses all over his face, but Galliard is going to try his best.

“I’m sorry I introduced you as my friend.”

Galliard pulls away, affronted. “What?”

Reiner smiles lazily, the picture of a beatific saint. “I should have introduced you as my boyfriend.”

 _Oh_. Oh, that’s a thing, and Galliard is equal parts elated and terrified. Boyfriend? He’s only been a boyfriend once in his life, and while it wasn’t terrible, he also wasn’t very good at it, and his life hadn’t been nearly as shitty as it is now. But Reiner is a bright spot in an otherwise bleak, exhausting existence, and the thought of being connected with him, even temporarily, is tempting. It’s so, so tempting.

“Does this mean you want to start doing sappy shit?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Reiner kisses the tip of Galliard’s nose. “The _sappiest_ shit.”

“What kind of sappiest shit?” Almost against his will, Galliard is melting into Reiner’s arms, helpless against the force of his sun, and not entirely sure why he’s been resisting so hard in the first place.

“I want to take you on dates.”

“Dates?” Galliard hasn’t been on a date, a real one, since high school, and there’s something charmingly quaint and old-fashioned about Reiner asking him on one. “Where?”

“Restaurants. Museums. Soccer games.”

“Baseball games?”

“You like baseball?”

“I played it in high school.”

“I’ll take you to a baseball game.” Reiner is warming to the subject, peppering his sentences with kisses, and his enthusiasm is contagious. “We’ll go and I’ll get us both ball caps and bring zinc oxide so we don’t get sunburned. We’ll drink beer and eat hotdogs and yell ourselves hoarse, and when the Kiss Cam finds us, I’m going to kiss the hell out of you in front of a whole stadium.”

“Gaaaaaaay.”

“ _Extra_ gay.”

“How do you feel about the Yankees?”

Reiner wrinkles his nose. “I hate them. I don’t even watch a lot of baseball and I know I hate them.”

Galliard can feel a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. It’s strange, how often he’s been smiling lately, when he’s around Reiner. It’s almost like the big thirsty bastard brings out the best in him. “Good. I hate them too. Let’s go to a game where we can scream at _them_.”

“A man after my own heart.” And then Reiner kisses him again, and it isn’t until much later that Galliard remembers what he said, and mulls it over, turning and twisting it in his mind, looking at it from all angles, trying to decipher its meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW! Sorry for the delay! This chapter had the potential to go really wrong in a lot of ways, and so it went through a stronger editing process than any of the other ones. 
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who read it and gave me feedback, your insight and input is much appreciated!
> 
> ETA: this is the first time Karina Braun has ever been tagged on Ao3. Who would have guessed she wouldn't be a popular character?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner gushes, and then gets a phone call no one wants to get.

“This apartment looks gayer every time I’m in here.”

“And somehow, strangely enough, I’m not hearing any complaints.”

“Of course not!” Ymir saunters into the living room, making a beeline for the baseball pennant hanging on the wall. “It used to look like a William-Sonoma catalog threw up in here. Now it looks like someone actually _lives_ here.”

Reiner can’t deny the truth in that, and follows her into the living room. “Did you only come up here to insult my taste in decorating?”

“Pfffft.” Ymir turns from the pennant and reaches out to give Reiner a friendly punch in the chest. “This isn’t your taste. This is some interior designer’s idea of a bachelor pad for a guy who would get married in a couple of years and then have his wife take over. That’s why it’s so bland. It’s a blank palette for someone else to draw on.”

“No, it’s…” Reiner pauses, and looks around his living room. He _really_ looks at it, for the first time since Jean left and he paid for the remodel, and dammit, Ymir is right. It _is_ bland, boring and colorless, or colors that can be easily painted over, everything neutral and inoffensive and completely unremarkable. The only spots of color in the entire room are the bright green tennis ball Sarge has left under the coffee table and the bright red Trost Rogues pennant on the wall. “Huh.”

“ _See_?” Ymir crosses her arms over her chest and grins, looking pleased with herself. “Don’t question me when it comes to colors and patterns, big guy; you won’t win.”

“I guess not.” Reiner is still a little dazzled that he’d never realized it before, but Ymir is absolutely right. This is a blank canvas bachelor pad, readymade for a future wife to paint over, and he had been in such a daze the last few months that he’d never noticed. Abruptly, he turns on his heel and strides to the hall closet, flinging open the door and digging deep inside it.

“Oh, come on, you don’t have to go back into the closet on _my_ behalf.”

“You hush.” Reiner would normally take the joking in stride a bit more, but he’s a man on a mission, and his mother’s visit, two weeks in the past now, still stings a little.

“Hush, huh? Are you going to start calling me _dahling_ next?”

Reiner emerges from the closet, a dusty, rolled up poster in hand. “What?”

“Historia told me your fuckboy has a Southern accent.”

“Don’t call him that.” Reiner doesn’t like using his Lawyer Voice when he doesn’t have to, but he’s not taking any shit on this particular issue. “His name is Galliard.”

Ymir studies his face for a moment, and then, miraculously, backs down. “Okay, Galliard has a Southern accent. She heard it when she met him in the elevator.”

“Yeah, he does.” An accent which he normally tries to downplay; Historia must have caught him at a bad time if he’d let it slip. “It’s pretty subtle, though, and he _never_ calls me _dahling_.” Reiner steps past Ymir, towards a blank spot on the wall. “Can you go grab the tape off my desk?”

He hears her walk away to retrieve it, and Reiner unrolls the poster, releasing a puff of dust that makes him couch. He holds it up against the wall, moving it this way and that, trying to find a good spot.

“Oh my god, you still have that old thing?”

“You think I’d throw this away? _Hell_ , no!” She offers him a piece of tape, and Reiner carefully secures one corner of the poster to the wall.

“You should really get it framed; it’s starting to look pretty tattered.”

“The tatter is part of its charm.” She’s not wrong, though, and Reiner makes a mental note to take it to a framing shop. The poster isn’t worth anything—he bought it from someone selling posters his first week of college, and it’s just a mass production piece that was probably made in China—but Reiner has had it for almost twelve years now, has had it hanging in every apartment he’s ever lived in, and taking it down and hiding it in the closet had been a glaring error of judgment.

He really needs to stop making those.

Once the poster is hanging, Reiner steps back to admire it, and Ymir shakes her head as she comes up to stand next to him. “Do you think Galliard will like it?”

“If he doesn’t, it’s over.” Not really, but Reiner can’t imagine Galliard will have any objections over his old _Rocky_ movie poster. It seems like the type of movie Galliard would appreciate, and even if he hasn’t seen it, Reiner will be more than happy to watch it with him. Hell, he could _recite_ it to him, if Galliard wanted him to.

Ymir chuckles, and elbows Reiner lightly in the side. “Yeah, right. You’d just sit him down and make him watch it with you until he liked it.”

“Ymir.” Reiner takes a tone of great patience, of someone imparting great wisdom on an innocent child. “ _Everyone_ likes Rocky. _You_ like Rocky.”

“I’m not a good example, I like all kinds of trash.” Ymir looks sidelong up at him, and her expression softens a little, her lips tilting up at the corners and her eyes losing some of the hard edge she carries most of the time. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Reiner nods, and he’s not nearly as shy about openly smiling as she is. “Yeah. I really do.”

And he does. It’s been slow going with Galliard, not nearly the explosive whirlwind it had been with Jean, but Reiner is being patient. There’s something rewarding about it, watching Galliard slowly open up and grow more comfortable around him. Reiner still doesn’t know his first name, or much of anything about his past, but he knows that Galliard prefers red apples to green ones, and likes his bananas with spots and slightly mushy. He knows that Galliard takes his showers steaming hot and that the lucky bastard just naturally has shiny, perfect hair, the kind he didn’t even use conditioner on until he started using Reiner’s. He knows that Galliard likes to fall asleep being the big spoon, but that during the night he inevitably winds up being the smaller one, and that he likes to wake up slowly, with his head on Reiner’s chest. He knows that Galliard likes cuddling, but doesn’t like to admit that he’s all about that lifestyle, and hence it works best when Reiner is stealthy about it. He knows that Galliard likes his steaks medium-rare, that he loves his dog with tremendous devotion, that he hates the smell of coffee after working at Starbucks, that he’s only two classes and an internship away from getting his degree. Galliard is worried about the internship part the most, and while he hasn’t said why, Reiner already knows: an internship will cut into the hours he’s able to work at his other jobs, and Galliard doesn’t know if he can afford to take the time off.

He also knows that Galliard isn’t only a stripper but also a cam boy, and that Galliard doesn’t know that Reiner knows. It’s something they’re going to have to talk about, but Reiner just can’t find the right words to bring it up. The closer he gets to Galliard, though, the more it hangs between them—a giant, unspoken secret—and Reiner knows it’s going to have to come out, sooner or later.

Ymir chortles beside him. “You’re the only guy I know who could go to a strip club, fall in love with one of the strippers, and then actually manage to turn him into your boyfriend. It’s like some shitty made-for-tv movie!”

“Do made-for-tv movies usually have a lot of strippers in them?” This is easier to talk about; Galliard’s secret burns in Reiner’s chest, and he desperately wants to talk about it but knows he can’t.

“They _should_ ; more people would watch them if they did.” Ymir settles herself onto the couch, crossing her legs underneath her, and pats a nearby cushion temptingly. “Come here and tell me about him.”

“Do you really want to hear about all this gay shit?” Reiner plops down next to her regardless, and snags a pillow from the other end of the couch to lean his elbows on. Of course she does, this is prime gossip, Ymir is going to be all about this.

“ _Do I really want_ … Reiner, have you lost your mind?” Ymir cuffs him upside the head, her blow drawn at the last moment so it does little more than ruffle Reiner’s hair. “Do I want to know about gay shit, I am _the queen_ of gay shit, now spill!”

Reiner opens his mouth, ready to tell her all about the way Galliard looks when he smiles, how his eyes crinkle at the corners and all the weight he seems to constantly be carrying drops away, but his phone rings and interrupts. He fishes it out of his pocket, and his face must brighten when he sees who’s calling, because Ymir laughs at him again.

He holds the phone out so she can see the name on the screen. “Speak of the devil… hang on.”

“He knew you were talking about him.”

Reiner shrugs with a grin, and slides his thumb across the phone screen to answer. “Hi, Pobert, what’s up?”

From across the couch, Ymir mouths _Pobert?_ , and Reiner turns his shoulder towards her so he can’t see her and she won’t make him laugh. 

“… Reiner?”

The tone of Galliard’s voice stops any cheer Reiner might have been feeling. It stops it dead and leaves a stone in the middle of his chest. He’s never heard Galliard sound like this before. His voice is completely flat and toneless, no inflection at all, and Reiner suddenly tastes bile in the back of his throat; did Galliard find out he’s titan23? “Yeah, it’s me, I’m here. What’s wrong?”

There’s a long pause, long enough for Reiner to get up off the couch and hurry into the kitchen, leaving Ymir alone on the couch. When Galliard speaks up again, it’s with that same flat, dead tone, and Reiner can feel anxiety spike upwards through his spine. “It’s Sarge. He can’t stand up anymore.”

“He’s having trouble getting up?” Sarge has been having difficulty standing on his own the last week or so, but between Galliard, Reiner, and Sarge’s painkillers stuffed inside blocks of cheese, they’ve always managed to get him to his feet and outside to pee. Reiner hopes—Reiner prays—that that’s all this is.

“No.” The word is like a nail into Reiner’s heart. “He can’t stand at all. Not… not even to pee.” Galliard takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his voice breaks, trembling like a small child’s when he speaks up again. “I… I really need you here right now.”

“Of course.” That admittance, that _confession_ , tells Reiner all he needs to know. Galliard—fiercely independent, private Galliard—needs him, and nothing short of the forces of Hell itself rising up against him is going to keep Reiner away from his side. “Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Where am I going?”

“I’ll send you the address.” A moment later, Reiner’s phone vibrates with a text message. “It’s a shit neighborhood, don’t…”

Whatever Reiner isn’t supposed to do is lost, because Reiner hears Sarge whine in the background and then a thump as Galliard drops the phone. Muffled sounds, simple nonsense words, filter through to him, and Reiner swallows a lump in his throat as he hangs up.

“Everything okay?” Ymir looks worried; she might be crass and bold, but she can also read a room. “You all right?”

Reiner shakes his head. “His dog… Galliard’s dog… he’s sick.”

~*~

Reiner takes an Uber to Galliard’s apartment instead of driving; Galliard lives in a neighborhood he’s not familiar with, and every moment spent looking for parking is a moment he’s not with Galliard and Sarge. Ymir comes down with him and waits for the Uber to show up, and when it does, she gives him a rare hug.

“I hope he’s okay,” she tells him before delivering a resounding smack on the back, and Reiner has no idea if she’s talking about Sarge or Galliard. Either way, he appreciates it.

“Thanks.” He squeezes into the backseat of the Uber, a beat-up Toyota Corsica, and the driver pulls away.

Reiner is so deep in thought, worrying about what he’s walking into, that at first he doesn’t even notice the driver is listening to Alex Jones on the radio. When he does, Reiner wrinkles his nose and fishes his phone and headphone out of his pocket. He sends Galliard a quick text— **on my way, be there soon** —and then starts to get the headphone cord untangled.

“It’s okay, I’ll turn it down.” The driver has a raspy voice, the kind that sounds like the result of too many cigarettes and glasses of hard liquor, and turns the radio down a fraction. Not enough to actually stop Alex Jones’s booming, furious rant, but enough to quiet it a bit.

“Thanks.” Reiner fumbles his headphones back into his pocket, wishing he’d just shoved them into his ears. But now it’s too late, and when they stop at a traffic light, the driver of the car watches him in the rearview mirror through squinting, jaundiced eyes.

“Do I know you?”

Reiner shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” The driver looks slightly manic, with bright, constantly shifting eyes and long, greasy hair that hangs past his shoulders. His fingers are constantly drumming on the steering wheel, and Reiner is starting to wish he’d just driven himself.

“Maybe not. You look familiar, though.” The light changes, and the driver has to focus on the road again. Reiner hopes that will shut him up, but that hope is short-lived. “You from around here? I don’t get a lot of calls from this part of the city.”

“I grew up in Trost, yes.” Shut up, shut up, shut up…

“Yeah, me too. My mom and dad aren’t from around here, though. They’re from faaaaar away.”

“Great.”

The driver snaps off the radio, silencing Alex Jones mid-rant. “Have you ever heard about the titans?”

 _Shut up_. “The football team?”

“No, no, no! The _real_ titans.” The driver is watching him through the mirror again. “You look like someone who would know about them. Someone who would _understand_.”

Reiner has nothing to say to that, which the driver interprets as interest, and he launches into a long, complicated spiel about how there are these things called titans that disguise themselves as humans and walk around the earth causing problems, and how he’s found some of them but not all and if Reiner could keep his eyes open for the Armored, Jaw, and Colossal titan, the driver would really appreciate that.

“I’m looking for the Cart and Female titans too, but they’re less important,” the driver tells him, his voice dropping into low tones of confidence. “I have the Attack titan and my brother has the Beast, so we’ve got two of the best ones. We just need to find the others.”

“Okay.” Reiner is starting to wish he’d taken the subway, even if it would have taken longer. The driver is starting to creep him out.

It doesn’t help that they’re driving deeper and deeper into a grungy part of town. Reiner has never been here before, but he recognizes it; he knows the liquor stores with their flickering, neon signs; he knows the scrubby, bare parks covered in concrete, where no grass ever grows and the trees are stunted and full of blight; he knows the air of despair and desperation that hangs over it, and the way it circles around the throat, choking away any kind of positivity and hope. He knows this part of town, even if it has a different name. He’s been here before.

The area is enough to silence even his chatty Uber driver, and as he winds deeper into the city, between towering high-rise, low-rent buildings that block out the sun, Reiner is quietly amazed that Galliard has kept going as long and as well as he has. He knows how living in places like this can wear you down, can make you want to give up, and yet Galliard has pushed on, carrying not only himself but his dog towards bigger and better things. He’s worked so hard and done so much with so little, and if Reiner wasn’t already in awe of him, he would be now.

The driver pulls up in front of a shorter building, one that might have been nice fifty years ago but is now quietly and actively decaying. A young woman with arm crutches and long, dark hair is waiting in front of it, and the driver eyes her curiously as Reiner gets out.

“Remember what I said,” the driver reminds him before he pulls away. “Keep an eye out for titans.”

“I will.” Reiner won’t, and he’s already forgetting the driver as he checks the address on his phone and heads towards the building.

“Reiner?”

He looks up, surprised at the sound of his name; the girl with the long hair is approaching him, her eyes enormous and swimming in her face, her tone uncertain.

“Yes, I’m Reiner.”

“Hi. I’m Pieck.” She gestures with her crutch back towards the building. “Galliard asked me to meet you and bring you up.”

“Nice to meet you.” Reiner falls in step behind her, wondering if he should offer her his arm. She doesn’t appear to need it, though, maneuvering her way into the building with enviable ease.

“Same. I wish it could be under better circumstances.” She leads him to a tiny, antique elevator and stabs the call button with one finger. As they wait, she looks at him critically. “I think this might be it for Sarge.”

Reiner nods; the same thought has crossed his mind, but he hadn’t wanted to vocalize it. “Have you seen him?”

“Yes. It’s… it’s pretty bad.” The elevator creaks down to them, and Reiner is vaguely touched to see that her eyes are wet with tears. Whoever she is, she clearly loves Sarge too. “He’s been old the entire time I’ve known him, but this is the first time he’s been _decrepit_ old.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.” She touches his arm, her fingers soft and cool against Reiner’s skin. “This is going to destroy Gali.”

“I know.” Galliard is going to take it _so_ hard, and Reiner sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. “Poor guy.”

She’s still watching him with those deep, endless eyes. She’s very pretty, Reiner realizes, in that hippie, boho way that Historia and Ymir would scorn but Annie would quietly approve of. “If you can’t be here for him when he’s at his absolute worst, which he will be, then you should turn around and leave right now.”

Reiner considers being offended by that, but realizes it’s something he might say about Bertolt; it’s something he _has_ said about Bertolt, when his father got sick and Bertolt was frantic with worry, and had just started dating Annie. Reiner had told her how serious the situation was, and how much Bertolt needed her, and she’d just looked at him coolly and said the same thing Reiner says to Pieck now.

“I’ll be there for him.” He swallows, and gives words to something for the first time, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “I love him.”

Pieck watches him a moment later, then squeezes his arm gently before dropping it. “Don’t tell him that if you haven’t already. Not right now. _Show_ him.”

Whoever she is, she loves Galliard too, and that alone makes Reiner warm towards her. “I’m planning on it.”

“Good.” She smiles then, and even though it’s tinged with sadness and grief, it illuminates her face. “I’m so glad he found you.”

Reiner smiles back, and the elevator grinds to a halt. The doors screech open, and Pieck leads Reiner down a dark, water-stained hallway, the overhead lights flickering in a way Reiner remembers well. She stops in front of a nondescript door and gets a key out of her pocket. Reiner didn’t even know long skirts like she’s wearing _had_ pockets.

As she unlocks the door, she looks sidelong at him, through the thick fall of her hair. “Be nice when you see his apartment. It’s the best he can afford.”

And with that, she pushes the door open, and Reiner lets himself inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo, best girls Ymir and Pieck! And also Eren, the creepy, conspiracy theorist Uber driver!
> 
> We're in the homestretch now, everyone; there will be two major plot points after this one, and then we're done. I don't know how many chapter that'll take, but this is definitely the final third of the story.
> 
> Also, be warned: things aren't going to go well for Sarge here. He's a seventeen year old yellow Lab, he was more or less doomed from the very beginning. He's the Marco of the story: he has to die for Galliard's character development. So yes, that will happen in the next chapter. I'll do my best to treat it with the respect and gravitas it deserves, and probably make myself cry in the process, but if you're sensitive to pet death, then you might want to skip the next chapter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pieck gets to narrate, Reiner learns some valuable things, and Sarge quietly exits the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this is the chapter where the dog dies. It's not a bad or traumatic death for him, but he does die by the end of the chapter. If you don't want to read that, you can skip this chapter and pick up at the next one.
> 
> And yes, I made myself cry (twice!) writing this.

Pieck opens the door, and Reiner brushes past her. He’s in a hurry, that’s obvious enough, but he’s still careful not to knock into her, and she appreciates that. He’d glanced at her crutches when they’d first met, but he hadn’t offered her his arm, or commented on them, and she appreciates that too. Today is a good leg day, and if the situation weren’t so emotionally fraught, she could probably get away with just a cane. Still, Reiner doesn’t know that, and he’s being conscious of it without calling her out, and Pieck can respect that. Someone, somewhere along the way, taught him manners.

He’s completely ignoring her now though, making a beeline directly towards Galliard and Sarge, and Pieck can respect that too. She carefully closes and locks the door behind her, remembering the first time she came into Galliard’s apartment. He’d been freshly moved in, only in Trost for a week or two at that point, his hair still shorn close all over his head, the bruises around his eyes still fading. Pieck had been shocked at the state of his apartment, and had asked him if living in a place like this was even legal.

She regrets that, now. It’s not like her place is anything wonderful, but it’s better than Galliard’s, and it had been a horribly insensitive thing to say. Galliard had gotten flustered, she remembered, and caustically reminded her that he’d just moved in and that he’d _get_ furniture, dammit, just back off and give him time!

Seven years later, and not much has changed. The apartment is still a long, thin box, with only one window, tiny and high up off the floor, facing a brick wall. The unused bedroom—she knows Galliard sleeps on the futon in the main room but has never found out why—doesn’t have a door, only a curtain, and it’s a windowless cell. At some point, Galliard replaced the wheezing, barely functional relic of a refrigerator, but it’s a dorm-sized fridge that he has instead, one Pieck suspects he found in a dumpster and coaxed into working again. The futon is a similar find, its legs wobbly and its mattress pressed flat and stained, and the shower creaks and blasts rusty water, when it can be convinced to work at all. Galliard usually showers at the gym, she knows, or more frequently at Reiner’s, where he has the benefit of both privacy and hot water. There’s no stove or oven, only a hot plate and a kettle with a fraying cord that Pieck is afraid to use, and what furniture there is is mostly cinder blocks and plywood. 

The only things of beauty and quality in the entire apartment are the two dog beds, both investments and kept scrupulously clean, and a small end table that Galliard found at a thrift store and then worked tirelessly to bring back to life, sanding away layers of cheap paint to find the hardwood underneath and then sealing it to a glossy shine. There’s also a high-end computer in the bedroom, but Pieck has never asked about it, and Galliard has never brought it up. Pieck only knows about it because Sarge once had a ball that rolled into the bedroom and she’d had to go in to retrieve both ball and dog.

Reiner pays no attention to any of it: not the water stains on the walls, not the bars on the tiny window, not the futon that looks one nap away from collapsing. He moves immediately to Galliard and crouches beside him, a hand lifting to his back, his head bending down to the same level. Galliard is leaning against the futon, his shoulders hunched in on themselves, Sarge lying on his bed in front of him, his head in Galliard’s lap. The apartment smells like a toilet, the result of the dog’s accident, and Pieck notices that Sarge’s soiled bed has been tossed in a corner and the one that’s usually by the end table substituted in. Galliard doesn’t lift his head, but after a moment’s pause, he leans to the side, letting his weight fall against Reiner’s chest, and Pieck watches as Reiner puts an arm around him and keeps him sitting upright. That’s good, that’s how it should be, and she makes her way over to the only chair in the room, another dumpster find, this one from behind the Starbucks where Galliard now works, and lowers herself into it. She’d like to get down on the floor with the boys and Sarge, but even on the best of leg days, getting up from the floor is a challenge, and she’d rather not make it into a whole thing.

The boys aren’t paying any attention to her, anyway; Galliard leans against Reiner in a way he’s never leaned against her, and Reiner has an arm protectively around him, not letting go even as he awkwardly arranges his legs to get down on the floor. Reiner is bigger than Pieck thought he’d be, based on the little Galliard has told her about him. She had been picturing a svelte, lean man, possibly with brown hair and a crooked smile, not the red-blooded beef on the hoof that had climbed out of the Uber. She’d pictured someone with an arrogant, rich-man’s swagger, someone with a perfectly tailored three piece suit and wraparound sunglasses, someone bearing a suspicious resemblance to the specialists she’s gone to see her whole life. But Reiner is none of those things. He’s big, yes, and getting bigger, if the bragging Galliard does about their work in the gym is any indication, but he’s no meathead. Nor is he a snob, not with how he completely ignored the poverty of Galliard’s apartment and went right for what matters.

They’ve only just met, and barely spoken, but Pieck already likes Reiner. She wishes they could be meeting under happier circumstances, but she likes what she sees so far. Anyone who cares about Galliard as much as he obviously does is okay by her.

“So what happened?” Reiner’s voice is low, a deep, comforting rumble, and Galliard takes a deep breath before he answered.

“He had some trouble getting up this morning, but he did it. I took him outside and he peed and pooped. I thought he was okay, so I went to work. But…” Galliard’s voice breaks a little, and Reiner’s arm tightens around him. Pieck notices that Reiner’s free hand has dropped down to Sarge’s head, and he’s gently petting his ears. “But when I got home, he’d messed his bed, and he _never_ does that, and he can’t get up. At all. It’s like his back legs aren’t connected anymore.”

Pieck glances at the dog’s legs, sprawled out behind him. Sarge rarely lies with his legs like that, she knows, and she can see how his fur is damp from Galliard cleaning him. Sarge’s tail lies limp and motionless on the floor, and Pieck realizes that she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Sarge when he wasn’t wagging it. For as long as she’s known him, he’s been an incredibly waggy dog, and seeing his tail so still makes her heart sink.

“Does he have a vet?” Pieck notices that Reiner is looking at Sarge’s tail too, and wonders if he’s drawn the same conclusion.

Galliard nods. “Yeah. But it’s really hard to get him there, and if… if it wouldn’t…”

His voice doesn’t break. It simply _stops_ , like his vocal cords have gone numb, and Galliard shakes his head.

Reiner glances up at Pieck, catches her eyes, and makes a little jerky movement with his head. She raises an eyebrow, not understanding, and Reiner repeats it, clearly gesturing towards Galliard’s other side. Pieck can feel her eyes widen, and she waves a hand over her crutches; that’s going to be a challenge, buddy, and an even more complicated one getting back up. Reiner mouths _please_ , and Pieck sighs and gets up.

Getting down on the floor is just as challenging as she thought it would be, and she doesn’t feel the slightest bit sorry for grabbing Reiner’s shoulder and leaning on him hard as she lowers herself down. Reiner is like a rock under her hand and barely twitches, and when she’s gotten herself situated, she leans in on Galliard’s other shoulder. 

From this angle, she can see Sarge’s face; his eyes are only half-open and glazed, his nose is still and dry, and his tongue, when he swipes it weakly at Galliard’s fingers, is a pale, unhealthy pink. Sarge looks rough, and Pieck can feel a lump rise in her throat as she threads her arm through Galliard’s.

“I can call someone to come here and see him,” Reiner offers, and Galliard shakes his head.

“Reiner, look at this shithole.” He laughs then, the sound bitter and cold and not even remotely resembling any real laughter. “You think I can afford the kind of vet who does house calls?”

Pieck goes still and lifts her chin, looking up over Galliard’s bowed head, watching Reiner. He doesn’t notice; all his attention is focused on Galliard, and when he answers, his voice is soft and level, not rising to any challenge Galliard may have thrown down.

“I can pay for it.”

“I ain’t asking for charity!” Galliard’s voice rises, making Pieck flinch. Sarge, always so attentive to Galliard, opens his eyes a little wider, and his pale, ghastly tongue scrapes along Galliard’s fingers, so dry it makes a sound like a cat’s tongue instead of a dog’s.

Reiner doesn’t even blink. “It’s not charity. It’s for Sarge. I care about him too, and I don’t want him hurting.”

From her angle, Pieck can’t see Galliard’s face, only the back of his head, but she can feel the muscles in his arm, and how rigid they’ve become. She can also feel how his shoulder is shaking, minute trembles that might be anger and might be fear and are probably both rolled up together. She can see Reiner’s face, though, and he’s painfully earnest, his eyes wide and guileless. He’s grieving too, and she finds that touching; he hasn’t known Sarge very long, but it’s clear that he loves him, perhaps as much as he loves Galliard himself, and if Reiner can use his money to make things easier for the dog, he’s going to do so.

She lifts her other hand and touches Galliard’s bicep; his head twitches in her direction, but he doesn’t break his gaze from Reiner. “It’s for Sarge, Gali.” She keeps her voice soft, soothing, and tries to stroke the tension out of Galliard’s arm. “A vet can make this easier for him.”

Galliard resists a moment longer, but when he crumbles, he crumbles all at once. His arm goes slack against Pieck’s, and he sags forward, doubling over Sarge’s head as if he could protect him from whatever’s coming next.

“Okay.” His voice is rough and raw, filled with unshed tears. “Call the vet.”

~*~

Reiner stands up and moves to the other side of the room to call the vet, speaking softly but with the kind of authority Pieck only wishes she could have. She stays on the floor with Galliard, carefully petting Sarge and keeping her arm linked with Galliard’s. He doesn’t talk to her, and she doesn’t try to engage him. Speaking would only force the issue, bring attention to the elephant in the room, and she knows that would make Galliard lash out. It’s better for him to circle around back to it on his own.

The vet shows up after about forty-give minutes, and Galliard transfers Sarge’s head to Pieck’s lap so he can get up and retrieve the dog’s medical records from the bedroom, emerging with a thick file. The vet flips through it, her eyebrows rising up under her shaggy blonde bangs as she reads.

“He’s seventeen?”

Galliard has repositioned himself back next to Pieck, and Sarge lifts his head on his own and puts it back on his knee. “Yes. He’ll be eighteen soon.”

The vet nods, and sets the file aside before kneeling down on Galliard’s other side. Reiner has remained standing, and he steps around next to Pieck, out of the way.

The vet’s hands are gentle and slow-moving as she lifts Sarge’s head and examines him, but Pieck can feel Galliard grow tense beside her. She pats his arm, and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye before turning all his attention back to the vet.

“When did you notice this change?”

They talk a little, Galliard explaining everything that happened, and Pieck looks up at Reiner. He’s watching the whole interaction, his jaw clenched and his brows drawn together, and Pieck is a little surprised at the sudden swell of warmth she feels towards him. She thought that today would be a day of grief and mourning, and it has been, but meeting Reiner has been a bright spot in an otherwise miserable experience. Galliard has found himself someone worth keeping, and she hopes he doesn’t lose what he’s found with Reiner.

The vet has finished asking her questions, and strokes Sarge’s back. “The good news is, I don’t think he’s in any pain.”

Galliard isn’t having any of this bullshit. “So what’s the bad news?”

“There’s very little I can do to help him.” The vet is forthright, at least, and Pieck respects her for that. She must have already figured out that Galliard isn’t the type to be comforted by doublespeak or euphemisms. “He’s a very old dog, Mr. Galliard, particularly for his breed. You’ve done a commendable, tremendous job taking care of him, but he’s at the end of his life.”

Galliard nods, the motion jerky, almost disjointed, very unlike his usual thoughtless grace, and Pieck gives his arm a squeeze. “So what’s going to happen to him?”

“I suspect he had a cerebrovascular accident, or a stroke, although there’s no way to be sure without further testing. In a younger dog, prognosis for recovery would be good, but in one his age…” The vet stops petting Sarge. “It may be time to begin discussing other options.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Gali…” Pieck tugs on his arm, trying to get his attention, and Reiner reaches over her, his hand moving towards Galliard’s shoulder, but he brushes them both away. He only has eyes for the vet, fully focused on her, a vein pulsing in his temple.

“I’ll ask about other options once I know what’s going to happen.”

The vet studies him with calm, cool eyes before continuing. “At the moment, his lower half has an extensive degree of paralysis. His charts say that he has mild hip dysplasia, which is only exacerbating the symptoms of his stroke. Based on his other symptoms, I suspect he is beginning to suffer from multiple organ failure.” 

Galliard visibly flinches at the word _suffer_. “You said you didn’t think he was hurting.”

“At the moment, I don’t think he is.” The vet starts petting Sarge again. “He may have some discomfort, but I don’t believe he’s in pain.”

Galliard mulls that over for a few moments. “Can you… can you make him comfortable?”

“Easily.” The vet ducks her head down, trying to meet Galliard’s eyes. “I can make his transition painle…”

“ _No_.” Galliard interrupts her, the word a sharp bark that makes all of them jump. “You’re not putting him to sleep!”

“Mr. Galliard.” The vet’s voice is impossibly kind, full of compassion. “Sarge isn’t going to get better. It’s time to start thinking about the quality of the time he has remaining.”

“I know he’s not!” Galliard sounds peevish and snappy, and Pieck is suddenly reminded of when they first met, and how Galliard was back then. It’s almost like he’s gone back in time, become the aggressive, furious child he was then, eighteen years old and trying desperately to be a man, and her heart breaks for him.

From Galliard’s lap, Sarge whines softly, and Galliard’s aggression evaporates as quickly as it had sprung up. “Hey, buddy, no, it’s okay…” He scratches behind Sarge’s ears, calming the dog, and once Sarge is settled again, Galliard keeps his voice low when he addresses the vet again. “I know he’s not getting better. But…”

And his voice dies there, just tapers away into nothing, and Reiner clears his throat.

“Doctor, may I speak with you? In the hallway?”

The vet looks back and forth between Reiner and Galliard; Galliard gives her nothing, his head down and focused on Sarge, and the vet rises to her feet. “Of course.”

~*~

“How long does Sarge have?” The hallway is dark and foreboding, but Reiner needs the privacy it provides.

“A day. Two, at most.” The vet is almost as tall as he is, and able to look him in the eye. “He’s not suffering now, but as his organs start to fail, he will. He’s dying, Mr. Braun.”

“I know he is.” Reiner had known ever since he’d gotten the phone call, and he pushes a hand through his hair, dimly aware that he’s picked up Galliard’s own nervous habit. “Can you do anything to make his passing easier?”

“I can make it instant and painless.” The vet studies him for a moment before shaking her head. “But that’s not what Mr. Galliard wants, is it?”

“No. I don’t think he’s… he’s not ready.”

The vet sighs. “I can give him an injection that’s a long-lasting painkiller. It will dilute any discomfort he might feel, and will last the night.”

“Thank you.”

“He may still be alive come morning, Mr. Braun. And when the painkiller wears off, he’ll be worse off than he is now.”

“Damn.” For the first time in years, Reiner wishes he’d gone for medical school instead of law school, or at least knew how to give an injection. “What time are you available in the mornings?”

The vet smiles faintly, and Reiner distantly notices that she’s pretty, in a competent, no-nonsense kind of way. “I’ll give you my personal number. But keep in mind that early house calls are…”

Reiner waves one hand. “It doesn’t matter how much it costs. Just add it to the bill.”

“Of course.” The vet doesn’t look happy at the prospect, and sighs again when she looks at the door. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Sure.”

“This is the shittiest part of my job.”

Reiner manages to crack a smile at that. “Even worse than the parts that involve patients actually shitting on you?”

She smiles back, clearly relieved by the dumb jokes. “Even worse than that.”

~*~

Galliard doesn’t want to let the vet inject Sarge with anything, but Reiner assures him that it’s just a painkiller, and after some back and forth, Galliard decides to believe him. He still watches like a hawk as the vet slides a needle into Sarge’s leg, but when the dog keeps breathing, he relaxes.

Reiner and the vet go to talk quietly in the corner again, and Pieck squeezes Galliard’s arm to get his attention. “Hey. Are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question, and she knows it, but she hates seeing the drawn expression on Galliard’s face, hates the way his skin is washed out and pale. For the first time since she’s known him, he looks like a stereotypical redhead, with a milk-white complexion and eyes that are swallowing the rest of his face. She notices faint freckles sprinkled over his cheekbones, so faint that they normally blend into the rest of his complexion, and it makes him look painfully young.

He doesn’t answer, much as she expected, and she leans into his side, putting her head on his shoulder. For a moment, Galliard doesn’t respond, then he lets loose with a great, shuddering sigh and rests his head against hers. It’s almost shocking in its intimacy, and Pieck cuddles in closer.

“No.” He swallows, and it sounds like he’s gulping down everything he can’t deal with right now. “I’m pretty terrible right now, actually.”

“I know.” Sarge is sleeping now, his head still in Galliard’s lap, and Pieck reaches out one hand to lightly stroke his ear. “I’m sorry, Gali.”

“It’s not your fault. He’s just…” Galliard lets his voice trail off, unable to put it into words, and Pieck doesn’t push him. They all know what’s happening to Sarge, there’s no need to vocalize it.

“Galliard.” Reiner is back, crouching down in front of them, and Galliard lifts his head off Pieck’s to look at him. Pieck picks up her head too, glancing first at the vet, still lingering near the door, before focusing in on Reiner.

“The doctor is leaving now.” Reiner touches Sarge’s hip, close to his motionless tail, and Pieck feels tears well up in her eyes as she realizes that she’ll never see Sarge wag it again. “She said Sarge will be comfortable until tomorrow morning. If you want to, we can call her again then.”

The unsaid implication lays heavy between them: if Sarge is still alive in the morning, Reiner can call the vet again to come and put him to sleep.

Galliard takes another one of those shuddering, gasping breaths, then nods, his chin dipping down so far it almost touches his chest. “Thank you, Reiner.”

“It’s no problem.” Reiner’s hand leaves Sarge’s hip to touch Galliard’s knee, and then he stands up again.

“Reiner.” Reiner stops, looking at Pieck in surprise, like he’d forgotten she was there. She gently, carefully untangles herself from Galliard, and holds her hands up to Reiner. “Help me up?”

“Uh… sure.” He steps in and offers her his hands, and Pieck hoists herself to her feet with them. She’s a little amused at how Reiner needs to shift his own weight to provide a base for her, and then takes his arm to steady herself once she’s up. Her feet are full of pins and needles from sitting on the floor so long, and she’s glad, now, that she used her crutches today. Today _was_ a good leg day, and now it’s definitely not. She gestures towards her crutches, and Reiner stretches out to grab them and hand them to her.

“Walk with me a minute?” she asks sweetly, and just as she expected, Reiner is too much of a gentleman to refuse her, and they walk to the door where the vet waits.

Pieck lowers her voice as much as she can, although it probably doesn’t matter terribly; Galliard isn’t paying any attention to them. “Are you going to stay with him?”

She’s pleased that Reiner looks offended that she’d even ask that. “Of course I am.”

“Until the end?”

Reiner glances over his shoulder at Galliard and Sarge, and his entire expression softens, broadcasting the love he claims to feel so clearly and simply that Pieck doesn’t doubt his sincerity in the slightest. Galliard has mentioned once, in passing, that Reiner reminds him of a sun, and Pieck can see that now. She can see how Reiner is like a sun in Galliard’s dark, brutal little world, and she hopes Galliard figures out that Reiner shines for him, and for no one else. “For as long as he needs me.”

“All right.” On impulse, Pieck stretches up and kisses Reiner’s scratchy, bearded cheek. Reiner startles, not expecting it, and she smiles at him as she lets him go and crutches back to Galliard and Sarge.

“Gali, I’m going home now. Reiner’s going to stay with you, okay?”

Galliard lifts his head to look at her, and Pieck takes the opportunity to bend down and kiss his forehead. “I’ll come back in the morning, but Reiner will be with you tonight.” She taps a crutch against her calf, wincing at the pain that shoots all the way up to her hip. “I can’t stay on the floor anymore today.”

Galliard nods. “Thanks for coming. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime.” She looks down at Sarge, currently sleeping peacefully, and then resolutely turns around. That isn’t Sarge anymore; that’s the shell Sarge has lived in for his entire life. The part of Sarge that’s _Sarge_ , the sweet, waggy, gentle part, is already starting to vacate it, and there’s no point in mourning over the shell.

Pieck crutches back to the door, with Reiner passing her to go back to Galliard, and she’s pleasantly surprised when the vet offers her an arm. 

“Do you need help getting back to your place?”

“Not really, but I’ll take it.”

~*~

The night passes slowly.

Galliard makes no attempt to get up from where he’s sitting, cross-legged on the floor with Sarge’s head in his lap, and Reiner settles down next to him. The futon’s metal frame digs into his back, but Reiner can handle it. He moves in close to Galliard, close enough that they’re almost touching, and when Galliard sighs and drops his head onto Reiner’s shoulder, he scoots in the rest of the way. He loops his arm around Galliard’s waist, and Galliard sags against him, letting Reiner support most of his weight. His breathing is rough and unsteady, and for a moment, Reiner thinks he’s going to cry.

He doesn’t; after a few moments, Galliard gets control over himself, and sits in silence, Sarge’s face in his hands, his thumbs soothing down the fur on the dog’s cheeks.

The room—the cell—gets very little natural light, so it takes awhile before Reiner notices the light is changing, that shadows are stretching long across the walls. Both his legs are asleep, cramped and aching underneath him, but he ignores them. He shifts a little, trying to get the pins and needles sensation to leave his legs, but he keeps his arm around Galliard.

“Are you hungry?” After so long in silence, his voice sounds boomingly loud in the small room.

Galliard shakes his head, even as his stomach noticeably growls. 

“We don’t have to go anywhere. I could order a pizza or something, have it delivered here.” No response, and Reiner drags his arm free so he can lightly stroke his fingers on the back of his neck. “You just let me know if you change your mind, all right?”

Galliard nods, and then clears his throat. “He was a birthday present.”

It takes Reiner a second to realize he’s talking about the dog. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Galliard is quiet again for a moment. “Not mine. Marcel’s. It was his tenth birthday, and all he wanted was a puppy. Our uncle showed up with a big box, and the box was shaking and whining, and we knew what was in it, but he still acted like it was a bicycle or something.” Galliard makes a sound that’s almost a chuckle, and Reiner leans in closer to him, his head falling to rest against Galliard’s. “But then he put the box down, and Sarge was inside, and… and I never saw Marcel so happy.”

Galliard nods towards the end table in the corner, under the window. “That’s Marcel. You can go see him, if you want.”

Reiner has already glanced at the little display, when he was over there calling the vet, but he didn’t really examine it despite his rabid curiosity. Galliard keeps himself so hidden away, so private, that any hint at his private life is something Reiner treasures and stores away, but he also doesn’t want to be pushy about it. “You don’t mind?”

Galliard shakes his head and straightens up a little, taking his weight off Reiner’s side. “It’s okay.”

Reiner gets to his feet, wincing as compressed nerves start to wake up, and takes the few steps he needs to cross the room and examine the little table.

It’s a nice table, made of a hardwood and stained a beautiful cherry shade, but Reiner isn’t paying attention to that. He crouches down, his knees letting loose with twin pops that sound like pistols going off, and looks at what’s displayed on the table. 

The first thing he notices is how scrupulously clean the table and everything on it is. Galliard isn’t a sloppy person, but the rest of the apartment has an aura of disuse about it, like it’s a place to eat and store things but not really a home. The only things that have obviously been cared for are the bed Sarge is laying on, and this table. Galliard has gone to efforts to make sure it looks nice, and considering what’s on it, that level of care and consideration breaks Reiner’s heart.

The first thing he notices is the flag, folded into a three-sided bundle, the stars on its surface facing out. It’s enclosed in a wooden frame, sealed away from the elements but still visible through a glass window, and Reiner knows what it means to have a flag like this. He’d known, on some level, ever since Galliard told him who his dog tags had belonged it, but having such definitive confirmation makes his heart sink. First his brother, and now his brother’s dog…

A few framed photos sit around the flag. One of them is a formal military photo, of a young man who looks strikingly like Galliard, posed in a dress uniform in front of a flag. Marcel and Galliard had looked alike, except for Marcel’s dark hair and a certain softness around his eyes that Galliard lacks. He had been a handsome young man, much like his brother is now; he looks like someone Reiner would have liked, and it makes Reiner’s chest hurt to realize that he’ll never be able to have a beer with Galliard’s brother and hear stories about their shared childhood. He’d always wanted a brother himself; he can’t imagine the pain of losing one.

The other photos are more informal, little snapshots taken by point-and-shoot cameras, the colors yellowed with age and creases running across some of them. They’re pictures of two boys, one with dark hair and one with the sun-kissed golden-red hair Reiner knows so well—paler than it is now, bleached by days in the sun—taken somewhere out in the country, in light that’s warmer and brighter than the harsh, shadow-casting light of Trost. One picture must be from the tenth birthday when they got Sarge: it shows two grinning boys, their arms around a wiggly little puppy that’s barely recognizable as Sarge, their eyes bright and excited, the puppy’s tail a blur of motion, its wagging unable to be captured by the camera. Another shows a younger version of them, sitting under a bedraggled Christmas tree, their hair cropped short around their ears, Galliard’s grin revealing missing teeth. Galliard has his arms around a stuffed rhino, and Marcel is hugging a plush pig. The final one is the newest, taken when they were in high school: Marcel has his hair long, pushed back in the style Galliard wears his in now, and the two of them are leaning against a battered old truck, their arms crossed over their chests and mugging for the camera. A handsome yellow lab sits near Marcel’s heel, a Sarge younger and more spry than Reiner ever knew him, his tail just as blurry as the picture where he’d been a puppy.

It’s a shrine, a memorial to someone loved and lost, and Reiner can’t imagine someone loving him as much as Galliard clearly loves his brother. Would his mother build a shrine like this to him, if he were to unexpectedly die? He thinks she would, but it wouldn’t have this personal, intimate feel to it. It would be his university diploma; his letter stating that he passed the bar exam; maybe one of his letters from high school sports; it wouldn’t be this meaningful, this cherished. Reiner’s mother would make a monument to his potential and accomplishments; Galliard has made a monument to who his brother _was_.

With that bitter knowledge lodged in his throat, Reiner gets up and returns to his vigil beside Galliard, sitting right back down next to him and lifting his arm across the back of the futon. Galliard ducks in underneath it immediately, leaning in against Reiner’s side and putting his head on his shoulder, and Reiner draws him close.

They sit like that as the shadows draw longer and the room slowly grows dark. Galliard is motionless under Reiner’s arm, silent except for his breathing, his thumbs the only part of him moving, rubbing in constant, soothing circles on Sarge’s cheeks. The dog slumbers on, his sides rising and falling with each breath, and Reiner can smell the sharp, acrid scent of acetone, the scent of organic matter breaking down, every time the dog exhales.

Galliard doesn’t speak again until the room is completely dark, and the only thing Reiner can see is the faint outline of Sarge’s body, illuminated by a street light out the window. “You don’t have to stay. You can go home if you want to.”

Reiner shakes his head. “Nah. I’d rather be here.”

Galliard doesn’t respond to that, but Reiner can feel gratitude radiating off him. Galliard might be trying to send him away, but Reiner wouldn’t leave his side for anything tonight. “You can sleep on the futon, if you want.”

“I’m okay.” Not only does he not want to leave Galliard’s side, but Reiner is also fairly certain that he’d crush that futon under his weight. Even if it didn’t fall apart from his bulk, it’s definitely too short for his legs. He can understand now why Galliard is always so eager to nap in his bed.

“You need your sleep.”

“I’m fine, Gali.” Reiner turns his head just enough to kiss Galliard’s temple. “I’m fine right here.”

“There’s a bed in the other room, but…” Galliard’s voice tapers off, and he sighs, the sigh of a man marching to his death, the sigh of a man who sees the gallows rising through a crowd ahead of him and knows he has to soldier on. “I don’t want you lying on it.”

Galliard tenses under Reiner’s arm, almost like he’s expecting a blow for what he said, and Reiner simply kisses his temple again. “I told you, I’m okay. I don’t need to lay down.”

His aching back and sore ass cheeks would disagree with that assessment, but Reiner is stronger than a little discomfort.

Galliard stays tense under Reiner’s arm, and even turns his head away from him, so Reiner ends up kissing his hair. “There’s something you need to know about me.”

“Okay.” Reiner lifts his head, and keeps his voice completely neutral.

Galliard sighs again, and his voice hitches a little, catching on his words. “I’m not just a stripper. I’m also a cam boy.”

There it is, out in the open. Reiner knew this was going to come up, sooner or later, but he never thought Galliard would lay it out so baldly, so simply, and with no room for interpretation. There’s a certain reckless, prideful bravery to that, and Reiner feels it; he feels himself tip over a cliff and fall a little more in love with Galliard. “Okay.”

Galliard shoves against Reiner’s side, pushing himself upright. His shoulders are still woefully tight and drawn in under Reiner’s arm, but he makes no move to shrug Reiner’s arm off. “Do you know what that is? What it means?” Before Reiner can answer, Galliard pushes onward, his voice getting tighter and more anguished with every word. “It means guys on the internet pay to see me do all the stuff I can’t do at the club. They pay to see me shove shit up my ass and talk to them like it’s their dick and not a weird sex toy. I’m…” His voice breaks, and Galliard turns his head away. “I’m basically a _whore_.”

Reiner swallows down a mouthful of bile; god, is _that_ how Galliard feels about camming? And Reiner had been one of those perverts, had put money in Galliard’s online tip jar to see him strip down, had taken part in his degradation. He feels sick to his stomach, horrified at how he’d hurt someone he cares about—someone he _loves_ —and his arm tightens around Galliard’s shoulders, drawing him in close again. Galliard fights it for a moment, leaning away from Reiner, then gives in, pressing up close to him and turning his face to hide it in Reiner’s chest. Reiner wraps his other arm around him, and Galliard brings one hand up off Sarge to cling to Reiner’s arm, gripping his bicep with the panicky strength of someone afraid of drowning.

“I don’t think you’re a whore.” It’s stupid, and it’s not nearly enough, but all Reiner’s vocabulary has deserted him.

Galliard snuffles against his chest. “You don’t?”

“No.” Reiner kisses the top of his head, getting some hair gel residue on his lips and not caring. “You’re not a prostitute. You’re my boyfriend, and I…” And Pieck told him now isn’t the time, and Reiner bites his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. “And I care about you.”

It’s a clumsy save, but it’s the best he’s got.

Galliard is quiet, his face still hidden in Reiner’s chest, and Reiner keeps holding him, keeps propping him up, even when he realizes Galliard has somehow drifted into an uneasy doze, the stress of the day and his confession finally catching up with him. He keeps holding Galliard as the room darkens into full night, as Sarge’s breathing gets slower and slower, as Reiner himself starts to drift off. 

He keeps holding Galliard like he’s never going to let him go.

~*~

“Reiner.”

Reiner snaps awake, and for a second, he doesn’t know where he is. This isn’t a room he knows, and yet it’s a room he knows very well: the long shadows cast by other buildings butting right up against it, the stink of wet plaster, the gurgling of the pipes in the walls all speak to a poverty he’s known for a long, long time, a poverty he thought he’d escaped. And then Galliard says his name again, and Reiner remembers. He’d somehow fallen asleep, sitting upright and with Galliard still in his arms, and now it’s dawn. The room has brightened, turning misty grey with shadow, and for the first and only time, it doesn’t look like a place where lost souls wash up. The light is gentle, almost ethereal, and Reiner doesn’t want to speak above a whisper and break the hush.

“Yeah?”

Galliard shifts in his arms, and Reiner drops the one around his chest, awakening fire inside it as the muscles complain about spending the night in such an awkward position. 

“I…” Galliard stops, swallows, and tries again. “I think it’s time. He’s… going.”

Reiner looks down at Sarge. In this pale, milky light, Sarge almost seems to glow, his grizzled, gnarly coat pearly and nearly white. The dog’s breathing is labored, each breath a heaving effort, the seconds between them growing longer and longer. Sarge’s eyes are open, wide and aware, and when Galliard touches his face, Sarge licks at his fingers one last time. Then, with a grunting sigh that stinks of nail polish remover, Sarge turns his head towards the window, and the table in the corner.

He takes another gasping, painful breath, and Galliard bends forward at the waist, his head dropping until it’s almost touching the dog’s, and his back shakes under Reiner’s arm.

“Sarge.” Galliard’s voice is that of a child’s, lost and alone, and it breaks Reiner’s heart. “Sarge, no…”

Sarge wheezes, and then his breath catches, cutting off abruptly, and Galliard sits up so fast he almost smacks Reiner with the back of his head.

Sarge lifts his head the inch or two he’s able and starts panting, but it’s not labored anymore; it’s the pant he makes when he’s plodding after his stolen tennis ball, or when he sees one of the kids who live in Reiner’s building. It’s a happy sound, and Galliard glances at Reiner, confusion and misery and apprehension all at war with each other across his face.

“Why’s he doing that?”

Reiner opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, he’s interrupted by a very familiar sound, a steady drum and swish that he hadn’t thought he’d ever hear again.

Sarge is wagging his tail.

Galliard turns his head, following the dog’s sightline, and Reiner does the same, thinking wildly for a moment that there’s something in the room with them. There isn’t, just the table with its flag and pictures, and that pearly, translucent light coming through the window.

Galliard’s breath hitches, catching in his chest and coming out in a sob. He touches Sarge’s head, and the dog licks his fingers without moving his head, his tail wagging harder at whatever he can see that they can’t. Reiner tightens his arm around Galliard’s shoulders, and Galliard buries his face in Reiner’s chest again.

“It’s okay.” It’s muffled by Reiner’s chest, but Galliard says it loud enough so that both Reiner and Sarge can hear it. “It’s okay, you can go now.”

Another beat of Sarge’s tail on the floor. Another happy, excited pant that ends in a long sigh, and then Sarge simply doesn’t breathe in again, as he lets go and moves on to whatever comes after. And Reiner, who hasn’t believed in anything for decades, who privately thinks God and religion are tools of control and not faith, swears he hears a dog barking, somewhere far away. It’s a young dog’s bark, one full of life and strength, receding into the distance, following the faintest, lingering sound of a joyous man’s laughter.

It’s probably someone walking their dog outside.

Galliard stays where he is, his face hidden against Reiner’s chest, his hands petting Sarge’s motionless head, for a time, long enough for the room to get brighter and lose that elegant, otherworldly light. It’s going to be a hot one, and Reiner starts quietly making plans for what to do with Sarge’s body.

Then Galliard lifts his head, and while his eyes are dry, they’re red-rimmed and miserable, his face suddenly aged by about twenty years.

“I’m sorry, Reiner.”

“For what?”

Galliard looks down at Sarge’s body, and lifts one hand as if to close the dog’s eyes, then changes his mind and leaves them open. “I have to take him home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye, Sarge. You were always A Good Boy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they deal with the aftermath of Sarge's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! 
> 
> My apologies for being so slow getting back to everyone's comments. I will respond, I promise, it's just been a hell of a few weeks.

It’s Galliard’s first time on a plane, and he can’t say he recommends the experience.

He knows he should be grateful, that this is a much easier and faster way to get back down to Liberio, but when the plane had lifted off the ground and started its ascent, he’d been suddenly, pathetically glad that Reiner was sitting in the window seat, and that he didn’t mind having his arm clutched at and squeezed so hard that Galliard might have left bruises. He’d only glanced out the window once, to see them banking over Trost and all the buildings downtown at an unnatural, tilted angle, before reaching across Reiner and dragging the window cover closed.

That makes it better. That makes it like riding in a car, and Galliard can handle that.

Reiner, an obvious old pro at flying, shifts around in his window seat, getting comfortable, and smiles reassuringly at Galliard. “Don’t worry, it’s a short flight. We’ll be on the ground in a couple of hours.”

That is entirely two hours too long, as far as Galliard is concerned, but he just nods tightly and makes sure his grip on Reiner’s arm hasn’t faltered at all.

He doesn’t know how he would have survived the last week without Reiner.

Reiner had sat with him, after Sarge passed; had held Galliard in his arms as Sarge’s body had grown cold and stiff, and not said a word until Galliard had sat up on his own. It was Reiner who had called the vet, and Reiner who had wrapped Sarge’s body in a sheet he’d found on the futon. Reiner had only hesitated once, when his search for Sarge’s winding shroud had unearthed a ragged, threadbare stuffed rhino and pig, caught between the futon’s mattress and frame. He’d carefully pulled them out and arranged them on Galliard’s pillow, then taken care of the dog.

When the vet arrived, it had been Reiner who had talked to her, speaking in low, hushed tones, like Galliard would interrupt him or disagree with what he was saying. Galliard wouldn’t have, even if he _had_ been listening; he’d been numb, sitting on the floor with Sarge’s wrapped body in his arms, feeling the unyielding, dead weight of it, and trying to process everything that had happened. Sarge was dead; his last piece of Marcel was gone. Reiner knew Galliard is basically only one step above a streetwalker turning tricks on a corner; Reiner was still here. That had been the thing he kept repeating to himself, the thing that had kept him going: Reiner was still there. Reiner didn’t hate him; Reiner wasn’t disgusted by him. Reiner had held him, and kissed him, and was even then talking to the vet and making arrangements for Sarge’s body.

Reiner was still there.

Reiner had knelt beside Galliard after talking to the vet, and quietly gone over the options with him. He could bury Sarge in the city, an option that was immediately turned down. He could have Sarge cremated and his ashes thrown away, a suggestion which Reiner knew would be denied, and was, with extreme prejudice. Galliard couldn’t just _throw Sarge away_ , that simply wasn’t going to happen. The final choice was to have Sarge cremated and his ashes returned to them in a few days. Galliard had heard enough of Reiner and the vet’s conversation to know that turn-around time like that is unusual, costly, but he had known that was what he wanted. Still, he had waffled a little, finally lifting his eyes to meet Reiner’s.

“I don’t want him to be alone for longer than he has to.” It was stupid, he knew Sarge wasn’t there, that Sarge was _gone_ , but the thought of Sarge’s body in a refrigerator somewhere, cold and frozen and abandoned, had been too terrible to contemplate.

Reiner’s eyes had softened when Galliard said that, and he had reached up to touch Galliard’s cheek, his thumb grazing over Galliard’s cheekbone, and managed a sad, sweet smile. “We won’t leave him alone. We’ll get him back as soon as we can, okay?”

Galliard had nodded and dropped his eyes again, but it hadn’t escaped his attention how Reiner had said _we_. Reiner was still thinking of them as a unit, as a pair, even after finding out what Galliard was. He knew, then and now, that Galliard was damaged goods, and yet he had still spoken of them like they were a team.

Reiner had offered to carry Sarge’s body down to the vet’s waiting van, but Galliard hadn’t let him. No, Sarge had been his responsibility, Galliard’s hostage to fortune, for the last nine years of his life—longer than he’d been Marcel’s dog, and Galliard only realized that after his death—and he was going to do this last thing for him. He wasn’t going to fail him in this final act.

The vet had had a large cardboard box waiting in her van, and Galliard had very carefully arranged Sarge’s body in it, wrapping the sheet around him so he’d be comfortable. It was a foolish impulse, Sarge was beyond things like comfort and discomfort, but Galliard still had to do it. When he was done, he’d looked up and met the vet’s eyes for the first time. “Can you burn the sheet with him too?”

Reiner, lingering beside him, had put a hand on Galliard’s shoulder, and he’d leaned into it. Without a word or any hesitation, Reiner had slipped his arm around his shoulders, supported him, and Galliard’s throat had almost closed up on him.

“Of course.” The vet had closed the van’s door, then turned back to them, pausing before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Galliard.”

Galliard hadn’t been able to watch her drive away; he’d chosen to hide his face in Reiner’s neck, not caring that they were out in public, not caring who saw, and breathe in the scent of Reiner’s sweat and the tattered remnants of his cologne, until he was sure the van was gone.

They’d gone back to Reiner’s place after that, Reiner unerringly steering him along, helping Galliard into an Uber and then up the elevator to his apartment, depositing him on the couch. And then Galliard had just… existed. The absence of Sarge was like a great, gaping wound in his chest, like something had been torn out of him and thrown gasping on the floor, to wriggle and die. Even in his numb state, Galliard had known that his grief was out of proportion to his loss: Sarge had been a wonderful dog, yes, and a part of his life for close to twenty years, but this grief is paralyzing, nearly insurmountable. If Reiner hadn’t made him food and put it in front of him, if Reiner hadn’t gently steering him into the shower and made him stand under the beating spray, if Reiner hadn’t pulled him into the bedroom and tucked him in, Galliard would have done none of those things. He would have just laid on the couch, staring off into space, and tried to learn how to breathe around the hole in his chest.

It isn’t just losing his dog, and Galliard can admit that now, as the plane levels off and he starts to loosen his grip on Reiner’s arm. It’s not just the loss of the one constant, judgment-free companion that he’s had for most of his life. It’s that he had had Sarge because of a promise he’d made, something he’d sworn to do for Marcel, and now that that duty is fulfilled, his promise kept, Galliard has no idea what to do next. What else is there, with the rest of his life stretching out in front of him and no Sarge to take care of, no promise to his brother left unfulfilled? What else is there, when everything that’s been keeping him going for the last seven years is a jar of ashes, carefully secured in Reiner’s carry-on luggage?

What else is there now that his brother is really, truly gone?

Galliard sighs, and Reiner reaches out, taking his hand and entwining their fingers together, giving it a gentle squeeze. Galliard marvels at that, at how easy simple, quiet affection is for Reiner, and how he’s not ashamed or embarrassed by it. How Reiner never seems to care who knows that he’s with Galliard, who even takes it a step further and seems to enjoy showing Galliard off, on the rare occasion that Galliard allows it. “You okay?”

Galliard knows he’s not asking about generally, because it is very much clear that no, he is _not_ okay, but about the plane. He nods, his grip tightening on Reiner’s hand, to make it very clear that Reiner should not, under any circumstances, let go. “Be glad when it’s over.”

Reiner chuckles softly, running his thumb over the back of Galliard’s knuckles. “Just you wait. Once you’ve been in one a few times, they stop being scary.”

Galliard grunts noncommittally; that sounds like bullshit, he doesn’t think flying will ever _not_ be terrifying, but sure, Reiner. Sure, you just believe that he’ll someone miraculously be able to afford flights regularly after this, and will eventually get over this fear.

But then again, Reiner has worked other miracles, without even realizing it.

He managed to get Galliard time off work at each of his jobs, so he could get onto this metal death tube and travel literal miles above the ground back to a place he’d promised to never return. Reiner had gently cajoled Galliard into making the necessary phone calls to Starbucks and the night club, and both his managers had been surprisingly understanding.

“They know you work harder than anyone and they’d be stupid to let you go,” Reiner had explained as Galliard had hung up, and if he hadn’t been so numb he felt made of ice, Galliard would have smiled shyly at that.

Michelle had been a harder nut to crack; she’d started cooing and simpering, using sweet sounds to hide the ugly truth that she didn’t want to let him go. She’d badgered and demanded, unwilling to accept a death in the family as a reason to give Galliard time off, and just as his throat was about to close up completely and he was ready to give up and just lose the job, Reiner had gently taken the phone from Galliard’s nerveless fingers and brought it to his ear.

“Yes, hello? Yes, my name is Reiner Braun, and I’m speaking on behalf of Mr. Galliard as his attorney.”

That had gotten Michelle’s attention, and although Galliard only heard half of the conversation, it had been mercifully brief.

“As part of Mr. Galliard’s employ, I assume that he is allowed bereavement leave?” A pause to listen. “In which case, if said appointments are rescheduled and the clients in question take no issue with such restructuring, then there isn’t a problem, is there?” Another pause, then Reiner makes a scoffing noise that sounds so snooty and upperclass that, under other circumstances, Galliard would burst out laughing. “Are you suggesting that Mr. Galliard not attend the funeral of _Sergeant_ Galliard? That he would be so disrespectful as to not attend a military funeral, where Sergeant Galliard is receiving highest honors?” Reiner drops his voice. “Do you not support our troops, ma’am?”

That had been all it took; Michelle caved, Reiner thanked her solemnly, and hung up the phone.

“You’ll have to reschedule all your appointments, but that should be okay.” Reiner had settled back onto the couch and put his hand on Galliard’s shoulder, rubbing slow, sweet circles on it. “I can already tell you that I’m fine with rescheduling.”

Galliard would never admit it, but Reiner’s touch grounds him, pulls him back from whatever dark places he might go, and without Reiner holding him, caressing him, telling him that it’s going to be okay, he wonders if he might have fallen into the hole in his chest and never emerged. He almost got lost in that hole once, after Marcel died, but then he’d had Sarge to take care of, Sarge who’d needed him. What’s to keep him from losing himself now?

“Do we need to rent a car when we land?”

Galliard gives himself a little shake, pulling himself back to the present. “No, I… I called someone. He’ll pick us up.”

“Who?”  
Galliard shakes his head again; it’s an innocent enough question, but not one he can answer. Not right now. “He’ll be there.”

Reiner’s brow creases, and he opens his mouth, like he wants to ask another question, but then changes his mind. Instead, he rubs his thumb across Galliard’s knuckles again, and leans in to kiss his temple. Reiner’s lips are warm and soft against his skin, and Galliard leans into it, taking just a moment to breathe deep and take in the scent of Reiner’s skin.

~*~

The flight isn’t long, but Reiner half-wishes it were longer. He’s desperately worried about Galliard, who has fallen into a state of semi-catatonia, and he has no idea what’s waiting for them when they land in Liberio. It’s the only thing Galliard has been insistent about: he has to go to Liberio. He has to take Sarge’s ashes home.

He had been ready to take a bus, a journey that would have lasted him five days and almost certainly gotten him fired, but Reiner had stepped in and bought them both plane tickets. He hadn’t even asked if he was invited, ready to eat the price of his ticket if Galliard had told him no. Instead, when he’d presented the plane tickets, Galliard’s eyes had widened, and he’d opened his mouth but said nothing. Then he’d moved in, all at once, and held onto Reiner like he was a life preserver in the middle of a raging sea, and Reiner had held him and tried to love him as best he could.

This is about more than just Sarge. Reiner’s mother isn’t a good person in a lot of ways, but she didn’t raise any fools, and he can tell that, as wonderful as Sarge had been, this is something bigger. It’s a deeper, uglier wound, and he suspects it has something to do with Marcel. He knows that Marcel’s story is probably a simple Google away—Marcel Galliard, how many people can there be with that name, he could get to the bottom of this easily enough—but he won’t. He refuses to take that story away from Galliard; he’ll only know it when Galliard chooses to share it.

The plane banks, and Galliard sucks in a breath between his teeth. His arm goes rigid beside Reiner, and his hand clenches down, grinding Reiner’s knuckles together.

“It’s okay, that means we’re going to land soon.” Galliard shoots Reiner a wild-eyed look, like Reiner is surely lying to him and this is it, the plane is crashing, and Reiner wonders if Galliard even realizes how much he still wants to live. Then the pilot comes over the intercom, announcing their imminent arrival, and Galliard’s grip relaxes a fraction. He lets out the breath he’d been holding, but he keeps his grip on Reiner’s hand all the way until the plane bumps down onto the tarmac.

Then it’s the flurry of getting off the airplane, of standing up and stretching and getting their bags down, and Galliard takes charge of Reiner’s bag immediately. It’s the bag with Sarge’s ashes in it; Galliard had wanted to carry them himself, but Reiner had persuaded him to let him do it, at least until they got through security. As expected, security had had questions about it, but they’d stepped down when presented with a notarized legal document stating what was inside the jar, as well as permission from the airline and a spew of legalese from Reiner. As soon as they’d gotten through, Galliard had laid claim to Reiner’s bag—his own is just his backpack, barely full at all—and Reiner had let him. If it makes Galliard feel better, Reiner isn’t going to protest.

As they step off the plane and into the airport, the heat of Liberio buffets Reiner’s clothes, and he can feel sweat springing from his pores. He’s used to a more northern clime, and the heat takes his breath away. He falls back, letting Galliard take the lead, which he does without even realizing it. It’s only when he’s gotten a few steps ahead that Galliard suddenly seems to realize that he’s ahead of Reiner, and he looks back, his eyes wild and full of an almost childlike terror, and Reiner reaches out to him. Galliard seizes his hand, holding onto it with that unusual, needy strength, and Reiner lengthens his stride to catch up to him.

They enter the airport side by side, and Galliard drops his hand.

All around them, Reiner hears the babble of accented voices, their words rich and drawling in a way Galliard’s never are, even when he lets himself go and his accent thickens. Maybe it’s because Galliard only really lets his accent go when they’re in the midst of sex, sweaty and conjoined and almost brimming over with pleasure, and he pants filthy, wonderful things into Reiner’s ear. Galliard’s sex voice makes him cum in ways nothing else ever has.

Galliard pauses, looking around the crowd of people gathered around the arrival gate, and Reiner scans them too, wondering which ones are there to meet them. It’s a smaller, regional airport, and people are standing around in small knots, some holding signs, others embracing their loved ones, their voices a wordless din all around them. Galliard doesn’t move, and Reiner has one heartbreaking moment where he thinks Galliard’s people haven’t come for him, that the brief, hushed phone call Galliard had made about this—one Reiner hadn’t heard, one Galliard had made behind a closed door—hadn’t yielded any fruit. Then Galliard gets moving again, striding in one direction with purpose, and Reiner trails behind him.

The man Galliard approaches is standing off by himself, a creased, broken-in baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, worn thin in places but clean, and a flannel shirt with fake mother-of-pearl snap buttons. He’d been leaning on a wall, a picture of relaxation and ease, but he straightens up as soon as Galliard approaches, lifting his chin and revealing startling blue eyes, bright and inquisitive, and Reiner gets the feeling that he doesn’t miss much. He uncrosses his arms as they approach, half-lifting them towards an embrace when Galliard stops in front of him.

They watch each other for a moment, the man’s electric eyes a reflection of Galliard’s hazel ones, and Reiner can see the family resemblance between them in their shared cheekbones, in the fullness of their lower lips. The man’s arms stay lifted, inviting but uncertain, and the moment stretches taut between them.

Then Galliard sighs and lifts his arms too, and the man closes the distance between them in two swift steps and envelops Galliard in an enormous bearhug. Galliard drops the handle of Reiner’s bag and grabs the man back, his arms circling him with a clap, his shoulders trembling as he presses his face into the man’s chest. Reiner’s eyebrows raise; whoever this man is, Galliard is comfortable with him in a way he’s never been with Reiner, and Reiner feels the faintest surge of jealousy spike in his chest. He smothers it at once, refusing to acknowledge it; whoever this is, it’s someone Galliard needs, someone who can give him something Reiner can’t, and he can’t—he won’t—refuse him that.

“Good to see you, Porkchop.”

Reiner almost drops his briefcase. Porkchop? _Porkchop?_ There’s no way… _there is no possible way_ … that Galliard’s first name is _Porkchop_!

Galliard lifts his head then and glances over his shoulder, and his face drops into a scowl the moment he spots the expression on Reiner’s face. “For god’s sake… my name isn’t fucking _Porkchop_.”

The man he’s hugging glances up at Reiner, and Reiner feels stripped, like the man has seen every part of him in a single glance, flayed him down to his bones and knows all his secrets and flaws and vices. Then he smiles, and frees his right arm from his embrace to offer his hand to shake. “A pleasure to meet you. Didn’t this boy tell you his real name?”

“ _No_.” Galliard sounds cranky, but he turns back towards Reiner, staying within the circle of the man’s arm as he and Reiner shake. The man’s grip is rough and worn, strong enough to nearly crush Reiner’s fingers. Galliard sighs and rolls his eyes. “Porco. My name is Porco.”

“Porco…” Reiner repeats it, and smiles a little. No wonder Galliard—no wonder _Porco_ hadn’t wanted to share that. He tears his attention away from this information, this _gift_ , and focuses on the man whose hand he’s shaking. “A pleasure to meet you too, sir. I’m Reiner Braun.”

The man glances at Galliard, whose cheeks turn pink but who speaks up readily enough, even as his shoulders tense towards his ears like he’s expecting a blow. “My boyfriend.”

“Ah.” The man suddenly grins, showing off white, straight teeth, and years melt away from his face until he barely looks older than Reiner himself. “Then I’m _extra_ glad to meet you, Mr. Reiner Braun. The name’s Erwin Smith.”

“He’s my uncle,” Galliard supplies helpfully as he steps out of Erwin’s embrace, his accent thickening to match his uncle’s, his words losing diction and blending together. “He’s my momma’s older brother.”

“Ah.” Family. This is Galliard’s actual family, a tangible link to his past, a family member who knows Reiner is Galliard’s boyfriend, and Reiner can feel himself smiling back, helpless to resist Erwin’s charm. “I can see the resemblance.”

“Now you’re just being flattering.” Erwin still has a grip on Reiner’s hand, and he abruptly pulls him forward, making Reiner stumble as he lurches towards him and collides with Erwin’s chest. Erwin reaches up and claps him on the back—resounding, echoing claps—which Reiner realizes are to distract Galliard from what Erwin whispers in Reiner’s ear.

“Thanks for bringing our boy home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it make any logical sense for Erwin to be Porco's uncle? No, no it does not.
> 
> Do I care that it makes no logical sense? No, no I do not.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erwin drives them home and Reiner checks out the old homestead.

Erwin drives an elderly pickup truck, battered and with bulbous headlights, one that was probably new sometime before Reiner or Galliard were born. It looks like it used to be dark green, but sun and the years have faded it to a pale sage color. But it’s not rusty at all, and the engine starts immediately and purrs throatily as Erwin guides them out of the airport’s crowded parking lot. The pickup is so old that it doesn’t have a second row of seats, and Galliard sits in the middle, giving Reiner shotgun and keeping his knees turned towards him, so his uncle can work the truck’s manual transmission.

Something jingles in the truck’s bed as they hit the road, and Reiner glances over his shoulder. There’s a large, equally battered toolbox riding in the truck’s bed, and Reiner’s heart jobs unexpectedly when he sees a pair of fishing poles back there. He wonders if Erwin ever took Galliard and Marcel fishing when they were boys, and if there are any stories about the one that got away that they share, or maybe a mounted fish on Erwin’s wall.

“Do you like fishing, Reiner?”

Reiner jolts back to himself, and shakes his head at Erwin’s question. “I’ve never been.”

“You haven’t?” Erwin’s surprise is palpable. “How long are you staying? The bass are running and…”

“We’re not here to fish,” Galliard interrupts, and his arms tighten around Reiner’s bag, cradled on his lap. “We’re here to bury Sarge and then we’re _gone_.”

Erwin is silent, and Reiner watches Galliard out of the corner of his eye. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set and rigid, his brows drawn down. Whatever warm feelings he’d had in the airport have fled, and Galliard has wrapped himself in anger and aggression again. Their tickets back to Trost don’t leave for another four days, and Reiner wonders if they’re going to make it, or if Galliard is going to insist they go home earlier.

They drive for a few miles in awkward tension, and Reiner spends his time looking out the window. They drive past the usual sprawl around the airport, but Reiner is used to that sprawl lasting for miles and miles, the airport almost becoming a city in and of itself. Here, the sprawl is over in minutes, consisting of some motels, some car rentals places, and a few fast food restaurants, some of which Reiner doesn’t even recognize. Then they’re on a highway, and even that’s smaller than Reiner expected—two lanes in each direction, with a divided median and trees planted between—and nothing but fields and trees on either side. In Trost, you’d have to drive for hours before getting this far out into the country; in Liberio, it took Erwin all of ten minutes after leaving the airport. The trees close in on either side of the road, taller and ganglier than any he’s seen in Trost, and Reiner wonders where they’re going.

As if reading Reiner’s mind, Erwin speaks up again. “It’s about a forty minute drive. If you’re hungry or anything, there’s a rest stop in about ten minutes.”

Reiner almost says no, then changes his mind. Even with the truck’s air conditioning chugging gamely along, they’re cramped in the cabin, and he’s not used to this kind of sticky, close heat. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Reiner can hear the smile in Erwin’s voice, and damn if he isn’t already enchanted by him. “It’s why I asked.”

Galliard rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

The rest area has vending machines, and Reiner stocks up on bottled water as Erwin heads into the men’s room. Galliard stays in the truck, and nods when Reiner returns and hands him a bottle of water. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Reiner climbs back in and closes the door, rebuckling his seatbelt. “Your uncle seems nice.”

He expects Galliard to snap at him, or say something cutting, but he doesn’t. He sighs instead, and hugs Reiner’s bag to his chest. “I know. He is. Uncle Erwin is… he’s great.”

Not the direction Reiner thought this was going to go, and he knows he has to tread lightly here. “Did you spend a lot of time with him when you were a kid?”

Galliard nods. “Yeah. Marcel and I both.” He glances at Reiner out of the corner of his eye. “More time than we spent at home.”

“Why?”

Galliard just shakes his head, and a few moments later, the driver’s side door opens and Erwin hops back inside the truck with the ease of man years younger.

“Got us some provisions at the vending machine.” He hands Reiner a Snickers bar, which Reiner accepts in exchange for one of his bottles of water, and then offers Galliard a bar Reiner doesn’t recognize. “Look what they had in the machine, Porkchop.”

Reiner expects bristling at the nickname again, but Galliard is full of surprises today; he turns the bar over in his hands, looking down at the brightly colored wrapper, and Reiner catches a glimpse of the name. It’s something called a Goo Goo Cluster, and he wonders what it tastes like.

“Thanks, Uncle Erwin.” Galliard’s voice is soft, wrought with some emotion Reiner can’t understand or decipher, but Erwin pats Galliard’s knee before starting the truck up again, and once they’re on the highway, Galliard leans against Reiner’s shoulder.

He tucks the Goo Goo Cluster into a pocket of Reiner’s bag instead of eating it, and swipes part of Reiner’s Snicker bar instead.

They drive the rest of the way in silence, but it’s companionable, and by the time Erwin pulls off the highway and onto a bumpy dirt road, Galliard is dozing on Reiner’s shoulder.

“I hope you’re not expecting too much.” Erwin’s voice is pitched low; he knows Galliard is snoozing and doesn’t want to wake him up, Reiner realizes, which just makes his esteem for the man rise higher. “I don’t know how much Pok told you about his upbringing, but he sure doesn’t come from money.”

Reiner smiles, glancing down at the top of Galliard’s head, all he can see due to how Galliard is sleeping on him. Pok… will today’s wonders never cease? That’s just as cute but less childish than Porkchop, and he wonders if Galliard would let himself be called that by Reiner. “It’s fine, sir. I don’t come from money either.”

Erwin makes a soft humming noise in his throat, whether in agreement or denial Reiner can’t tell, and the truck rounds a corner. The trees fall away into a natural clearing, and Erwin takes his foot off the gas, letting the truck slow down and coast towards a well-worn parking spot under a tree’s shady branches. “There it is. The old homestead.”

Erwin wasn’t kidding; it’s not much. The house is small and tucked back under another tree with draping branches; the main section looks like it was once a trailer, but then had bits and pieces added on over the years, giving it a hodgepodge, scattered appearance. It’s well-kept, though, and Reiner notices the cheerful little flowerbeds in front of it, in full, lusty bloom. There’s another structure behind the house, equally ramshackle and handmade, that must be a barn, and Reiner’s interest is piqued; what exactly is Erwin’s job, anyway? And who lives out here with him?

With the truck safely parked and turned off, Erwin reaches over and gently shakes Galliard’s shoulder. “Wake up, son. You’re home.”

Galliard snorts and turns his face into Reiner’s shoulder, and even though he’s sleeping and the gesture is clearly unconscious, Reiner can’t help but be delighted. Erwin just smiles and shakes his head. “You want to try?”

“He’s had a really tough week.” Reiner moves his shoulder, rolling it under Galliard’s cheek, and Galliard makes some sounds that are almost words before sitting up and blinking blearily.

“We there?”

“We are.” Erwin opens his truck door and steps out, and heat billows into the cab. 

Galliard looks at Reiner, still half-asleep, before he reaches across him and opens the door. “Go on, get out.”

Reiner does, the dust from the yard boiling over his shoes, which he realizes now are way too fancy for Liberio, and waits for Galliard to climb out. He offers a hand to take his bag as Galliard does, but he shakes his head and tucks it up under one arm. 

Erwin strolls around the truck and gestures to the house. “Go on in. Everything’s where it always was.”

Reiner thinks that sounds amazing, but Galliard balks at it, taking a step back until he collides with Reiner’s chest. “Everything?” he asks, his voice pitched high, sounding almost frightened.

Reiner glances at Erwin for help, even as he lays a hand on Galliard’s waist, and Erwin’s eyes are dark and sad under the brim of his hat. Still, his voice is impossibly gentle as he lays a hand on Galliard’s arm. “Just like you remember, son.”

Galliard closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, leaning on Reiner’s chest for just a moment. Then he opens his eyes, squares his shoulders, and strides towards the house without looking back.

~*~

Erwin’s walls are a museum, and the topic is Galliard and Marcel. The inside of the house is a little small, but it’s cozy, not cramped, and every inch of wall space is taken up with a carefully framed and mounted picture, a veritable history of Galliard’s childhood. And almost every picture is Galliard and Marcel together, frequently with Sarge once they hit a certain age. Reiner, an only child—and frequently a lonely child, often excluded from games for a difference he wouldn’t understand until much later in life—can’t even fathom growing up with an innate best friend, a constant companion, like that, and he wants to spend hours examining each and every picture like the treasured relics they are.

Galliard keeps his head down and his eyes on the floor. He clearly knew about the photo onslaught that was awaiting him, and is trying to avoid it. What looks to Reiner like a fascinating stroll is probably hitting Galliard with his brother’s and now his dog’s death all over again, and Reiner takes a step towards him.

Erwin beats him to it, sliding past Reiner and putting an arm around Galliard’s tightly hunched shoulders. “Hey now, Pok,” he says, his voice low and warm and filled with such simple, naked affection that Reiner’s heart aches for the father he never had. He knows Galliard needs this, and he deserves it, but dammit, Reiner wishes he had someone like Erwin in his life. “You going to be rushing through the house like this the whole time?”

Galliard shakes his head, but doesn’t lift it.

“Is this why you never wanted to come home?”

No response at all this time, and Reiner suddenly feels like he’s intruding. This is something that’s between Galliard and his family, and he has no place in this ancient history. He retreats a step, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, and Erwin glances over his shoulder at him.

“You’ll be staying up the stairs and on the second door on the right. Why don’t you take the bags up there and get settled?” Very gently, Erwin takes hold of Reiner’s bag and tugs on it, and after a moment, Galliard releases it to his uncle. Reiner reaches out and takes it, the leather still warm from the heat of Galliard’s body.

Erwin turns back to Galliard, and Reiner retreats up the stairs. 

Even the stairwell has pictures on it, and Reiner pauses to examine a few of them. He finds one of a much younger Erwin, his face not as lined as it is now but his eyes just as bright, with a dark-haired toddler on one hip and a tiny scrap of a baby cradled in his other arm. The baby has a shock of bright red hair that’s sticking straight up, and Reiner smiles. Another picture has two little boys in a long, low-slung boat, grinning at the camera and holding up fish. Galliard’s skin in the picture had been darkened by the sun, his hair bleached almost blond, and Marcel’s smile shows off some missing teeth. Still another picture shows them at a later stage of life, perhaps early high school: they’re wearing baseball uniforms—the Beasts, Reiner notes—with Galliard wearing a catcher’s gear and Marcel holding up a baseball to demonstrate his grip on it. Reiner knew that Galliard had been a catcher—he’d told him that himself, when they’d gone to a baseball game, and Galliard had spent the whole time bellowing cheerfully at the catcher—but now Reiner wonders what position Marcel played, and if he’d been the pitcher. There’d be a certain unity to that that Reiner could appreciate, the Galliard brothers working together to strike other players out, hardly needing signals or hand gestures to know what kind of ball to throw.

From the living room, Reiner can hear Galliard’s voice, finally answering Erwin, and he walks the rest of the way up the stairs to give them privacy.

More pictures in the cool, shady hallway, but Reiner goes to the room Erwin directed him to and lets himself in. A pair of twin beds with matching coverlets; a window with simple, white curtains; walls painted green but mostly hidden behind old, color-faded posters; an actual taxidermy fish on the wall; a battered dresser with baseball decals plastered on it. It’s clearly the room where Galliard and Marcel stayed when they were visiting Erwin, small but cozy and personalized, and Reiner wonders which bed had been Galliard’s, and if he should take that one or the one that had been Marcel’s. There’s no way to tell, and so he eventually chooses the bed on the left, based purely on how Galliard usually ends up on the right side of the bed on those rare days when he can spend the night at Reiner’s place.

He sets their bags down and stretches out of the bed; it’s too short for him and his feet dangle off the end, and Reiner resigns himself to a few nights of sleeping curled on his side. On the little nightstand next to the bed, there’s a scrap of paper with a Wifi password written on it in a careful, neat hand, and Reiner is grateful for Erwin’s thoughtfulness. He pulls out his phone and connects.

It’s the usual suspects in his inbox: a question from work that could have easily been answered by Google, an ad trying to entice him into a Caribbean vacation, another ad asking if he’s happy with his current banking services. Even as he’s deleting them, Reiner’s phone chirps as a text message from Bertolt arrives.

It’s a picture, a grainy grey and black one, more modern art than actual photo, but even Reiner can pick out the outline of a head, and a little arm extended forward. He grins and taps out a response.

**Reiner Braun: looks like you**

Bertolt’s response is instantaneous.

**Bertolt Hoover: you liar  
Bertolt Hoover: she looks like Annie  
Bertolt Hoover: she’s way too beautiful to look like me**

**Reiner Braun: so it’s a girl?**

**Bertolt Hoover: yes!  
Bertolt Hoover: no dick on the ultrasound!!!**

Reiner can feel his grin widening. It’s some very good news on what has been a long, grinding week.

**Reiner Braun: then may I suggest Reinerina for a name?**

**Bertolt Hoover: no  
Bertolt Hoover: no, you may not**

They chat back and forth for awhile—yes, Annie is fine, she’s healthy and active and pregnancy has been easy for her; yes, she’s starting to get that pregnant lady glow, and is showing a little bit; yes, the flight was fine, Reiner got to Liberio without any problems; no, Galliard is still having trouble talking about Sarge and what happened.

**Bertolt Hoover: is his family okay?**

**Reiner Braun: I’ve only met his uncle  
Reiner Braun: and he’s pretty great?  
Reiner Braun: at least he seems that way**

**Bertolt Hoover: huh  
Bertolt Hoover: he hasn’t talked about why he left at all?**

**Reiner Braun: no  
Reiner Braun: he’s hardly talked at all since it happened**

**Bertolt Hoover: I’m glad you’re there with him, then  
Bertolt Hoover: it sounds like he needs you**

“Reiner?”

Reiner startles and nearly drops his phone on his chest. Galliard is standing in the doorway, looking wan and tired, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He’s practically swaying on his feet, and Reiner gets up, moving over towards him. “Hey.”

Galliard allows Reiner to lead him towards the bed on the right, and Reiner silently congratulates himself on guessing correctly. “Who’re you talking to?”

“Bertolt.” Reiner waits until Galliard is sitting down to continue. “He sent a picture of his baby. Want to see?”

Galliard nods, and Reiner retrieves his phone to show him the ultrasound shot. Galliard examines it, and the faintest smile tickles the corner of his mouth. It’s tiny, barely there, but it’s still almost a smile, and Reiner’s heart lifts to see it. “It looks like a blob.”

“Hey now, that’s my goddaughter you’re insulting!”

That faint little smile again, and Galliard hands Reiner his phone back and lays down. “You’re going to be a godfather?”

“Yeah. Bertolt asked me a few weeks ago.” 

Galliard nods, rolling to his stomach and tucking his pillow under his arms, cradling his head in it. His legs are just short enough to fit on the bed, Reiner notices. “You’ll be good at that.”

“You think so?” Reiner lays his hand on Galliard’s back, rubbing in slow, small circles. He hasn’t talked about it much, but the idea of being a godfather is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. “I never really had a dad of my own, so I don’t know.”

“Dads are overrated.” Galliard rolls onto his side, turning to face the wall. “I’m taking a nap. Erwin is out on the back porch, if you want to go have a beer with him.”

And just like that, he’s asleep. Reiner lingers for awhile, just watching the slow rise and fall of Galliard’s side, before he gets up and slips out of the room.

~*~

Reiner takes his time getting out to the back porch, pausing to examine the pictures on the walls more closely. He notices that, besides Erwin, Marcel, and Galliard, there’s another man who appears in some of them. While he’s rarely in a picture with Erwin, he’s in several with the boys, including a particularly cute one of a tiny Galliard, carefully balancing in a pair of men’s boots that go all the way up to his hips, his arms in the air and holding the other man’s hands for balance. Intrigue courses through Reiner; is this other man Erwin’s partner? He shows up in photos the way a wife would, and there’s no evidence of Erwin having a female companion.

Reiner makes his way to the back porch, and Erwin is sitting in a rocking chair there, a battered tin bucket full of ice next to him, cans of Budweiser lodged between the ice cubes. He glances over when he hears Reiner enter, and gestures towards another rocking chair on the other side of the bucket. “Mike won’t be home for a few hours yet and won’t mind you sitting in his chair.”

“Thanks.” Reiner snags a beer out of the bucket and sits down, surprised at how his body conforms to the chair, and how comfortable it is. He pops the top of the sweating can and drinks deep.

Erwin doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just sits and rocks and watches dusk slowly fall, and Reiner takes his cue from him. The trees are tall and thick around the little house, and the way the light filters through their branches is something he hasn’t seen before; the trees in Trost are too planned, too systematic in their placement, to get this feathery, soft light as the sun sets.

“Long flight?”

Reiner shakes his head. “Not too bad. It’s only a few hours from here to Trost.”

“Pok told me he didn’t care for it.” Even in the slowly settling darkness, Reiner can see the smile on Erwin’s face. “Said he squeezed your arm almost off.”

Reiner chuckles; he can’t believe Galliard admitted that. “It wasn’t that bad. He just got a little nervous at takeoff and landing.”

“Still.” Erwin takes a drink of his own beer. “It was very kind of you to come down here with him. I can’t imagine that Pok had much nice to say about the place.”

“He…” Reiner pauses; this feels like a sensitive topic, one where he needs to tread lightly. “He hasn’t talked much about his past.”

“You don’t have to be shy.” Erwin sets his can aside and fishes in the bucket for another one. “The boy didn’t even tell you his full name, and you’ve been his for how long now?”

“A couple of months.” Reiner likes how Erwin phrases that; Reiner _has_ been Galliard’s, and maybe didn’t even realize it, almost since they met. “I don’t think anyone else back in Trost knows it at all.”

“He never did like Porco.” Erwin shrugs. “Can’t say that I blame him. His brother got the easy, normal name and then the boy’s father saddles Pok with what he did. Imagine I’d go by Galliard too.”

“Are we going to go see Galliard’s parents?”

Erwin is taking a sip of beer when Reiner asks that, and the question makes him cough. “I don’t believe so. Not unless Pok wants it, and I don’t think he will.” 

He turns in his chair then, pinning Reiner under his gaze, and Reiner feels stripped, like Erwin is flaying away all his skin to see what’s underneath, to see what his intentions are. “Has Pok ever told you why he was in Trost?”

Reiner shakes his head. “No. He’s never mentioned it.”

Erwin watches him a moment more, then nods and looks back out at the trees, and Reiner breathes an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “I’m not going to tell you that story; it’s not mine to tell, and when Pok wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself. What you do need to know is this: don’t ask Pok about his parents, or why he doesn’t speak to them anymore. When he’s ready to tell you, he will.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Reiner lifts his can to his lips, and is surprised to find it empty. “Galliard is… very private.”

Erwin chuckles at that. “That he is. That boy is full of secrets, and what he doesn’t realize is how his face reveals every single one of them.”

They sit in companionable silence for awhile after that, watching dusk come on, and Reiner is amazed when fireflies come out. He’s seen them in movies and read about them in books, but it’s the first time he’s seen them in real life.

Erwin sighs, and gets out of his chair. “It’s about time to start making dinner. You don’t have any dietary restrictions I should know about, do you?”

“No, sir.”

Erwin claps Reiner on the shoulder as he passes. “Good man. Why don’t you go wake up Pok and bring him down? If I know that boy, he’ll be half-starved by now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: writing Erwin is delightful, and I wish he could have been in the story from the very beginning.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard dreams, and Reiner meets someone.

“Come on, hand me the lure.”

Porco—with Marcel, it’s always Porco, the only person who’s ever been allowed to call him that—reaches into the tackle box, knowing almost without looking where everything is. Erwin has always been fastidious with his tools and tackle, and everything is neatly labeled and in its right place. He finds the lure he knows Marcel likes, and hands it over.

“Thanks.”

Porco frowns as Marcel’s fingers brush against his; they’re in the middle of the lake, with the sun beating down around them, reflecting off the still water and bouncing back in their faces, and yet Marcel’s fingers are cool across his palm as he takes the lure, and strangely insubstantial, almost like a whisper of mist. He looks up, trying to see his brother’s face, but the glare off the water is too much, and Marcel’s head looks like it’s trapped in a corona of light, his face too bright to see.

So Porco focuses on his brother’s hands, and the deft, natural way he threads the lure onto the fishing line, and it’s okay again. The weird unease leaves him, and he looks for his own rod.

It isn’t in the boat.

“Hey, where’s my stuff?”

“Somewhere else.” Marcel casts, the reel whispering as it plays out the line, and Porco realizes that his brother is wearing a sand-colored camouflage jacket. That brings all the dread, all the unease, right back into his chest, and Porco starts looking frantically around the bass boat, suddenly desperate to find his rod and reel.

“We have to go back and get it!”

“Nah.” Marcel’s hook lands in the water, and he starts slowly, leisurely reeling it back in, sending bright little V shapes across the water that hurt Porco’s eyes to watch. “There’s no time.”

“What are you talking about?” Porco shades his eyes, looking at the lake’s shoreline, trying to spot Erwin’s truck, but the shoreline is weirdly blurred, everything running together like paint, and he can’t find Erwin’s truck. “You’re just fishing, we’ve got plenty of time.”

Marcel chuckles, quiet and deep in his chest, and Porco whips back around. He can feel panic mounting in his throat, tasting like steel and hard candies gone rank and spoiled, and he starts to move forward, wanting to shake Marcel and make him stop acting so weird. As soon as he moves, the boat rocks, tipping and turning far more than Porco’s movement should have caused, and he sits back down. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to swim, can’t remember a time when he wasn’t intimately familiar with this lake and all its waves and holes and swampy bottom, but he’s suddenly afraid of that dark, opaque water and what might be hiding underneath. “Marcel!”

“Porco.” Marcel’s voice is mellow and even, a tone Porco recognizes from childhood—it’s the voice Marcel always used when Porco was riled up and angry about something, the voice that, outside of Erwin’s, was frequently the only thing that could get him to calm down. Even now, in this bizarre, shifting world, the voice works, and Porco sits still, focusing all his attention on his brother.

“What?”

“Porco.” Marcel repeats his name again, and from the shoreline, Sarge starts barking. It’s a sound just as intimately familiar as his brother’s voice, but Porco ignores the dog for now, leaning forward and hanging on Marcel’s every word.

“Porco.” It’s the third time, and Marcel’s voice is filled with so much love, so much simple, genuine affection, that Porco’s throat starts to close up on him, and he reaches his hand across the boat.

“Please.” Porco whispers it, his voice unable to do anything louder, cracking and straining around the edges just with that single word. Sarge keeps barking from the shore, loud and joyful, and Porco can just imagine how his tail is wagging and how he’s jumping up and down, and that makes him sad and he doesn’t know why, but he _needs_ Marcel to answer him. “Marcel, _please_ …”

“Gali.”

The world starts to blur around the edges, and Sarge’s barking fills Porco’s ears, and even as he watches, the light around Marcel’s head starts to brighten, starts to melt away the outline of his features.

“No!” 

Porco stands up then, and tries to lunge across the boat, tries to catch Marcel around the waist and keep him here, keep him in the boat, out of the light that Porco is suddenly sure only exists to take him away. 

“Don’t leave me!”

“Gali?”

_“No!”_

Porco flings himself across the boat, even as the light behind Marcel threatens to burn the world to cinders and as Sarge’s barking deafens him, but Marcel dissolves like mist in his hands, and Galliard jolts awake with a gasp.

“Gali?”

It’s Reiner, Reiner crouched next to Galliard’s bed, his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. His brow is knit down over his eyes, his lips pursed in concern, and Galliard goggles at him, still caught between sleep and consciousness.

For a moment there, he thought it was Marcel, coming to wake him.

“Gali, are you okay?” Now that he’s awake, Reiner stops shaking him, and instead moves his hand to the small of Galliard’s back, rubbing in small, soothing circles. “You were moving and making noise, and I thought you were having a nightmare, so I woke you up.”

Reiner bites his lower lip, uncharacteristically uncertain but so damn concerned that he just had to do _something_ , and Galliard almost gasps as a sudden, nearly overwhelming rush of heat fills his chest. Reiner can’t know this, but Galliard used to suffer from nightmares as a child, terrible dreams with shouting, furious shadows that were always almost in the shape of his father, and his whining and thrashing would wake up Marcel. And then he’d come to little Porco’s bed, and wake him up, and then it would all be okay for awhile.

With a sudden snort, Galliard shoots his arms out, grabbing Reiner around his shoulders and hauling him forward. Reiner squawks gracelessly and doesn’t move, but Galliard spends large parts of his week at the gym and is no slouch in the strength-building department. He heaves again, and with a faint, token protest, Reiner climbs up onto the bed with him.

The bed, built for a teenaged boy, squalls and creaks under their combined weight, but its craftsman built it with love and it holds. Reiner tries to turn on his side, to maximize the limited space they’ve got, but Galliard is having none of that. He manhandles Reiner around until he’s sprawled out on top of him, Reiner’s weight pressing Galliard into the mattress, and he turns his cheek to Reiner’s chest and keeps his arms cinched around his back.

Reiner hovers above Galliard for a moment, clearly taken aback by the new position, but then he lowers himself down, his weight spreading out and pinning Galliard down. He lifts one hand and strokes it through Galliard’s hair, and Galliard hates how good that feels, how soothing.

“I was dreaming about my brother.”

“Oh.” Reiner’s hand falters for a moment, then resumes the same slow, gentle strokes. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it was… I haven’t dreamed about him in years.” Galliard doesn’t dream at all, normally. He’s usually too exhausted and desperate for whatever sleep he can grab to dream. For the first dream in a long time, this wasn’t a terrible one, at least not until it got weird.

Reiner moves his other arm around, tucking it in close to Galliard’s side. “Did you used to?”

“Sometimes.” And _those_ had been _bad_ dreams, the shadows of Galliard’s early life replaced with Marcel, and Marcel dying. In every dream, he’d been dying, over and over again, and there hadn’t been anything Galliard could do to save him. The deaths had been varied and unique, each one hideous and violent, each one with Marcel begging someone, _anyone_ , to save him, and in each one, Galliard had been helpless, mute and made of stone, with that horrible logic of dreams. Your brother is dying, therefore you are completely unable to help him. “This one… it wasn’t so bad. It got weird at the end, but it wasn’t _bad_.”

Comparatively, it was positively pleasant.

“Mmmm.” Reiner shifts on top of him, uncomfortable, and after a moment’s hesitation, Galliard pulls his knees apart. Reiner drops between his legs with a surprised _oof_ , and then there he is, his hips slotted between Galliard’s thighs, their chests pressed together, Reiner propping himself up on his elbows so he can look down at Galliard.

They’ve never been with each other like this. Galliard has never wanted to, has never wanted to concede the control that this position demands. He had thought, foolishly, that if he never gave himself up to Reiner, then it wouldn’t hurt when Reiner leaves. He’d thought that if he’d always kept Reiner at an arm’s length, then he’d never find himself in this position, he’d never be in a place where he could get hurt. But now, under Reiner, and with Reiner’s concerned, beautiful face looking down at him, that rush of heat fills Galliard’s chest again, and he _knows_. God help him, he knows.

This guy. This fucking guy.

Somewhere along the way, Galliard had fallen head over heels for Reiner Braun. Reiner Thirsty Bitch Braun, Reiner fucking Braun, Reiner Adam Braun, with his perfect apartment and his expensive clothes and his kind, wounded eyes and his hands that are always so gentle. Fuck Galliard’s life, he’s in love with Reiner Braun.

_Fuck_.

Reiner’s forehead creases. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Galliard lets go of Reiner’s waist to cup both hands around his face, and gently steer him down for a kiss. “Thanks for waking me up.”

“Uh… you’re welcome?” Reiner still looks confused, but he has no problem returning Galliard’s kiss, and Galliard knows that if this goes on much longer, it’s going to reach a point of no return, and he can’t do that in his uncle’s house.

Reluctantly, Galliard keeps the kiss brief, but leaves his hands on Reiner’s face. “Why’d you come up here?”

“Oh!” Reiner brightens, and just for a moment, Galliard basks in his light. “Erwin is grilling. He said to come down.”

~*~

The smell of cooking meat hits Galliard’s nose as soon as he steps out into the hallway, Reiner close at his heels, and the scent is so evocative, so full of memories, that it almost floors him. Rather than be full of pain, though, it sends nostalgia flooding through him; he couldn’t count the times he and Marcel stayed here growing up, and how often Erwin would use his grill to cook them an enormous feast, more food in one meal than they would get in two or three days at home, and how no steak or rack of ribs has ever tasted as good, has ever satisfied his hunger the way Erwin’s simple, lightly-seasoned creations do. The smell chases the last shadows of his dream away, and Galliard glances over his shoulder at Reiner, finding that he hasn’t completely forgotten how to smile.

“You’re in for a treat. No one can grill like Erwin can.”

Reiner pouts for a moment, but his eyes are twinkling, clearly happy to see Galliard smiling again. “Better than me?”

Galliard reaches back and puts a hand on Reiner’s shoulder. “Yes.”

Reiner’s eyes widen slightly, but then he grins. “Guess I’ll have to hassle him for all his secrets.”

Galliard is about to answer, but then someone looms up beside them, a presence as familiar as Erwin’s, and he turns into what he knows is coming. A split second later, he’s enveloped in a massive bearhug, smothered in warm flannel and the smell of sunshine, and he can’t get his arms up to hug back but that’s okay. Erwin had seemed smaller, when Galliard had spotted him in the airport, diminished and weathered with age; it’s a great relief to find that this, at least, this hug, feels exactly the same as Galliard remembers.

Reiner makes a concerned sound behind Galliard, taken aback by the sudden assault, and the arms around Galliard loosen, allowing him to step back and look up into a bearded, smiling face.

“Mike!”

“Porkchop.” He says it quietly, calmly, his thick, drawling twang from an area far west of Liberio musical, and pats Galliard on the shoulders. “Been a long time.”

“I know.” To avoid that particular topic, Galliard turns and gestures to Reiner, who is awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, but no longer looking worried. “Reiner, this is Mike. Mike, this is Reiner.”

Reiner steps forward, offering his hand to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Mike shakes Reiner’s hand, thankfully not pulling him into an embrace the way Erwin had done. He sizes Reiner up, looking him up and down, and Galliard is fascinated to discover that Mike is taller than Reiner by a good couple of inches. Mike has always seemed like a soft-spoken, benevolent giant in his memories, but it’s still strange to see that confirmed in real life. 

Mike eventually finishes his assessment of Reiner, and drops his hand. “Pleasure to meet you too. Thanks for bringing our boy home.”

Galliard can see the question in Reiner’s eyes, the question he’s dying to ask but too polite to blurt out, and so he answers it for him. “Mike’s is Erwin’s partner. He’s my other uncle.”

Reiner’s eyes go wide, and Galliard recognizes a flash of hurt there, deep in their centers, and it makes guilt rise in the back of his throat. Reiner stifles it quickly though, and simply smiles at Mike, pumping his hand one more time before dropping it. “Galliard never told me he had two uncles.”

Mike glances at Galliard, then back at Reiner and shrugs. “Our boy likes his secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly short transition chapter, but the next one will be longer.
> 
> I'm behind on answering your comments again, and I apologize for that. The end of June was pretty damn busy and it was a choice between writing a new chapter and writing responses. I'll get to those comments, I promise! Please know that I read and cherish every single one of them.
> 
> In other news: Erwin narrator for the next chapter! GET EXCITE!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Porco takes care of some unfinished business, and Erwin and Reiner have a talk.

Erwin wakes up in the middle of the night, as he often does now—he remembers being a young man and being able to sleep for eight, ten, even twelve hours at a stretch and barely even move, let alone have to get up—and slips out of bed, leaving Mike’s slumbering hulk behind to go down the hall and use the toilet. As he shuffles sleepily down the hall, he notices the door to the boys’ room is open, and with a force of habit nearly thirty years in the making, he ducks his head in to check on them. Even now, with Marcel seven years in his grave, the need to check on the boys, to make sure they’re okay, is almost a compulsion, and it must be met.

Both boys—adults, really, but Erwin will never be able to look at Pok and not see the tiny, fiercely brave little boy he’d once been—have crammed into one bed, the bed that Marcel always slept in, the one Erwin is sure Pok had directed Reiner towards. Reiner is sleeping on his back, head tilted back, snoring quietly through his bent nose. Pok has curled up alongside him, wedged between Reiner’s side and the wall, his head on Reiner’s shoulder and one hand resting across Reiner’s chest, one of his legs thrown across Reiner’s. Reiner has his arm draped around Pok’s shoulders, the gesture protective, his other hand tossed off the side of the bed and trailing on the wooden floor.

The scene is so familiar, so achingly reminiscent, that Erwin has to shake his head. Pok used to share Marcel’s bed like that, back when they were very small and the younger boy had been plagued by nightmares. On the rare occasion when Pok had stayed with them and Marcel wasn’t there, Erwin could almost guarantee that he and Mike would have a midnight visitor, frequently tearstained and clutching his worn stuffed rhino, begging to be admitted to their bed, always fearful that he’d be turned away. The visits had tapered off as the years had worn on, and as the boys got older, Pok had stayed in his own bed, sleeping on his own when Erwin went to check on them. Seeing him now, though, curled against Reiner, needing that physical comfort but, Erwin is certain, refusing to admit it out loud, gives Erwin such a case of deja vu that it’s almost dizzying.

He’s glad Pok found someone, though, someone who clearly doesn’t mind sharing a bed with him, even if the bed is far too short and narrow, leaving Reiner hanging off it on two different sides. He’s glad Pok has someone to be with him right now, in ways that Mike and Erwin himself can’t be, and he’s glad that someone is a person like Reiner. Reiner is the kind of match for Pok that Erwin can approve of, stable and considerate and intelligent, and it only took one dinner of watching them together to know that Reiner cares deeply for his nephew. Reiner’s eyes had rarely left Pok, but there was no possessiveness there, no jealousy, just simple, deep, honest concern and, dare Erwin even think it, love. 

He wants Pok to have found someone who loves him, and who he can love back. He wants Pok to be happy, even if that state has always proved elusive for him. Marcel, Marcel had been happy, always sunny and bright and alive in the world, and Pok had started that way but then slowly built up a simmering rage, a resentment, that had always bubbled just below the surface. Knowing what the boy had to deal with at home, Erwin can’t blame him, but he’s equally glad to see that that undercurrent seems to have died away. Pok is older now, and sadder, but the rage seems to have gone away, replaced with a melancholy that Erwin doesn’t care for either, but which he hopes is temporary. When Pok interacts with Reiner, that melancholy fades into the background, and the sweet, affectionate little boy Pok Erwin once knew peeks through. Maybe, given enough time, Reiner can draw that to the surface.

Erwin goes back to his own bed, and Mike shifts beside him, rolling over and blinking owlishly at Erwin.

“The boys okay?”

“They’re fine.” Whether Mike is asking about Pok and Marcel or Pok and Reiner, Erwin can’t tell, and he supposes it doesn’t matter. “Asleep and cuddling.”

Mike nods, his eyelids already drooping. Erwin retired just a year ago, but Mike still goes to work most days, driving his truck around and doing woodwork for the people who need it. The town has started growing again, young families with kids moving in, and they have the money to afford Mike’s work, either his elegant, clean-lined carvings or his sturdy, nigh-indestructible furniture. The bed the boys are sharing tonight was made by Mike, almost three decades ago, and it makes Erwin’s heart hurt, thinking about how much time has passed them by.

Mike yawns, his jaw cracking with the movement, and tosses an arm over Erwin’s chest. He doesn’t say anything else, just heaves himself closer, and Erwin turns towards him, letting Mike take him into his arms.

~*~

The next day dawns hot and humid, and when the boys come downstairs for breakfast—Reiner is almost thirty, Erwin knows, but his association with Porco means he’s always going to be a boy in Erwin’s mind, just as it will always be startling that Porco somehow grew into a man when he wasn’t looking—Reiner is already starting to wilt from the heat. Porco doesn’t seem to notice; he’s quiet and pensive all during breakfast, drinking his coffee and shoveling pancakes into his mouth with grim determination, only lifting his head once to ask a question.

“Uncle Erwin, did you call the guy at the cemetery?”

“I did.” It had taken lots of cajoling and the eventual sharing of a secret fishing spot location, but Porco doesn’t need to know all that, and Erwin will never tell him. “Don’t you worry, son, we’ll get it done today.”

Reiner looks up from his own breakfast, obviously curious, but after glancing back and forth between Erwin and Porco, he decides to keep his peace and instead asks Mike about his carpentry work. Reiner had warmed up to Mike immediately the night before, and Mike to him, and they manage to keep the conversation going as everyone eats.

Then breakfast is over, the dishes are washed, and Mike leaves for work, clapping both the boys on the shoulder as he walks past—Reiner lights up at the attention, and it breaks Erwin’s heart a little to see how desperate he is for a father figure—and bending to kiss Erwin’s cheek before ambling out the door. Porco keeps nursing his coffee, turning the cup over and over in his hands until Reiner gently takes it away and stands up to refill it.

Erwin clears his throat while Reiner is up and in the kitchen, and when Porco lifts his head to look at him, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, his skin stretched taut across his cheekbones and pale in the dining room’s mellow light. He looks so miserable that Erwin wishes he were still small enough to pick up and hold on his lap, still young enough to believe his uncle could smooth it all away. But Porco isn’t, and this is something he’s going to have to face like a man, so Erwin just smiles benignly at him and sips his own coffee, gone lukewarm as Porco dawdled. “You ready to do this? We don’t have to do it today.”

They really should, any delay is going to cause problems on Erwin’s end, but he won’t tell Porco that either.

Porco presses his lips together, turning them into a thin, white line, then shakes his head. “No, but I have to. He’s… they’ve waited long enough.”

Erwin nods, and reaches across the table to touch one of Porco’s hands, twisting and ripping at a napkin without a coffee mug to keep them busy. “You want help?”

“No!” Porco snaps, then realizes what he’s done and shakes his head. “No, thanks. I need to do it myself.”

“I can respect that.”

“Respect what?” Reiner is back, and he hands Porco a fresh mug of coffee.

Erwin doesn’t think Porco is going to answer, but the boy surprises him, answering Reiner readily enough and even lifting his eyes to look at him. “We’re burying Sarge today.”

~*~

They all pile into Erwin’s truck, and Erwin drives them out to the cemetery. It’s a long drive, a full forty minutes, and Porco is quiet the entire time, leaning against Reiner’s shoulder and closing his eyes. Reiner looks out the window with interest, and Erwin considers telling him about what they’re passing but doesn’t want to stir up any ghosts for Porco. This town is full of ghosts for the boy, many of them the kind that don’t rest easy, and they don’t need to know that Porco is back, don’t need to rise from their graves and go chasing after him. Today is a day to bury ghosts, not attract new ones, and Erwin quietly vows to drive Reiner around later and answer whatever questions he might have.

The cemetery itself is deserted, silent and slumbering in the heat, enormous shade trees drooping low over the graves, their branches heavy with Spanish moss. Erwin follows the road through the cemetery easily; he’s driven this route many, many times, more often over the last seven years, and he knows it like the back of his hand. Porco lifts his head when he feels the truck slow down, and he watches through the windshield, and Erwin can hear him grinding his teeth.

Reiner must be able to hear it too, because he shifts, getting his arm free—his arm which is almost certainly sound asleep, after Porco leaning on it for the whole drive—and tries to get it around Porco’s shoulders, managing to smack Erwin in the shoulder with the back of his hand. Porco rebuffs him, taking Reiner’s wrist and pushing it down to his knee, shaking his head. Reiner makes a sound like he’s about to speak, but then decides to go with it and stays quiet.

The Smith family plot is towards the back of the cemetery, an area that was the cheapest back when Erwin’s grandparents bought plots there and is quite nice, now that the trees around it have grown a little and it’s been tended by Erwin and his sister for the last thirty years. As Erwin pulls in under one of the older trees, the tires of his truck finding the grooves that have been worn there over the years and slotting neatly into them, he swears he sees two little boys playing between the graves, the memories of Marcel and Porco helping him tend the graves for family they never met given form, and he needs to glance to the side as he parks, to reassure himself that Porco is still here.

He is, and god, time is a thief, when did he get to be so old? When did Erwin’s little boy grow into the man sitting next to him, his jaw clenched and his hands in fists on his knees? He looks so familiar and so foreign at the same time that it makes Erwin’s heart ache, and he turns off the truck and then just sits there as the engine dies and they’re surrounded by silence.

Not for long, though; a few seconds after the truck shuts down, the cicadas in the trees start keening like a Greek chorus, and Reiner touches Porco’s knee. Porco swats him away, and that breaks the spell; Erwin blinks, and starts rolling down his window. “Best roll it down, Reiner, or we’ll be getting back into a sauna.”

For some reason, that makes Reiner smile, and he starts cranking down the window.

Erwin opens his door once his own window is down, and slides out of the cab. He’s not surprised when Porco doesn’t follow him, and instead gets out on Reiner’s side. As he moves to the bed of the trunk, he notices that Porco is trying to both be close to Reiner’s side and also stand by himself at the same time, and it’s so similar to what he used to do with Marcel that for a moment, it almost looks like Reiner has dark hair and a narrower frame. But then Reiner ducks his head, his hair catching the sunshine and glinting gold, and Erwin shakes his head, clearing out the old cobwebs and ghosts, and reaches into the truck to pull out an pair of shovels and some lawn chairs.

Porco is at his side in an instant, showing the uncanny speed he’s always had, and he takes the shovels out of Erwin’s hands. His gaze is lowered, and once he has the shovels, he just stops for a moment, holding them close to his chest, minute tremors running through his shoulders. Erwin reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, and Porco allows it. Then Reiner catches up to them, and wraps an arm around Porco’s waist, which makes his spine go rigid, but beyond that, he doesn’t react.

Reiner clears his throat, gently shouldering the small bag that carries a jar full of Sarge’s ashes. “Would you introduce me to your brother, Gali? I’d really like to meet him.”

Porco makes a miserable sound low in his throat, something caught between a sob and a snarl, and Erwin steps in, wrapping his arms around Porco and catching Reiner in the process. Porco resists a moment longer, but there’s nowhere for him to go, because Reiner lifts his arms too and he’s snared between the two of them. He makes that choking, gargling sound again, and his face is feverishly hot on Erwin’s shoulder. Erwin lifts a hand to pat his shoulder, and Reiner shifts out of the way so he can reach.

“He’s not mad at you, you know.”

Reiner makes a soft sound of agreement, his arms tightening around them both.

“Marcel loved you, Porkchop.” Perhaps more than Porco realizes, but now isn’t the time to tell him about that. “He only wanted what was best for you. He’d understand. Just like Mike and I do. He gets it.”

“I ran away!” Porco’s words are muffled against Erwin’s shoulder, but the anguish in them is clear enough. “I ran away, and I _left_ him!”

“You were taking care of yourself, son. Marcel would understand that more than anyone else.” It’s also a gross misrepresentation of what actually happened, and Erwin tries to meet Reiner’s eyes over Porco’s head for a moment, hoping Reiner catches the signal that there’s more to the story than what’s being told. It’s a lost cause; Reiner has his head down, hovering attentively near Porco’s shoulder, his brows drawn together and his concern writ large in every line of his face. If Erwin didn’t already like the man, that would make him warm to him damn quickly. 

“You were taking care of Sarge,” Reiner chimes in, and presses his lips to the back of Porco’s neck.

Porco snuffles and shakes his head, rubbing his face across Erwin’s shoulder, but he stands a little straighter, his breathing calming down. It’s almost like he’s drawing strength directly from them, and Erwin won’t flatter himself to imagine that most of it is coming from him. As much as he wanted to be, he wasn’t _there_ for the last seven years, and Reiner was, at least for the last part of it. Reiner was there when Sarge died, and it sounds like he organized and paid for this entire trip to get Sarge buried. He’d tried to deflect the question last night at dinner, but Porco’s embarrassed silence had told Mike and Erwin all they’d needed to know. If this is Porco several days after the dog’s death, Erwin can barely imagine what he must have been like immediately after it happened, and he’s deeply, deeply glad that Reiner was there, and that he took charge of the situation.

Porco squirms between them, and Erwin loosens his arms, stepping back but keeping his hands on Porco’s arms. The boy has his head down, but he’s not actively crying, and he’s got his jaw held in a way Erwin recognizes; that’s Porco’s ‘I’m going to do it, no matter how hard it is’ face, and he claps him on the shoulder.

“You’ve got this, son.”

Porco nods, his grip on the shovels tightening. “I’ve got this.” He nods, once, then turns to Reiner, his head held high, and Erwin’s heart nearly bursts with pride. “Reiner, come meet Marcel.”

Reiner falls in step beside Porco, and Erwin trails behind them after leaning the lawn chairs against the side of the truck.

Marcel’s grave is under a shade tree, a flowering dogwood that still has the last of its flowers, casting a white carpet across the grass. He’s buried next to Erwin’s father, the grandfather that he never met, and the crepe myrtle Erwin planted between them is flowering in beautiful shades of deepest red. His headstone is made of simple, grey granite, a strong and elegant stone, and Erwin makes sure that the little flag planted next to it is always in perfect condition.

A small patch is blocked off in front of the grave, a square formed by sticks and yellow tape, and Porco glances back over his shoulder in confusion.

“It’s where you can dig.” It’s not a large area, only about two feet square, but Sarge isn’t as big as he used to be, and if Erwin’s hunch is right and Porco is going to want to dig all the way down, they’re going to have a hell of a lot of work to do regardless. 

Porco nods, and turns back around. His shoulders hunch up towards his ears again, and before Erwin can reach him, Reiner lays his hand between his shoulder blades and starts rubbing in slow little circles. Erwin steps up on the other side and simply stands beside them, looking down at the grave he’s tended with such care for the last seven years, the grave he’d feared would become his responsibility from the moment Marcel announced he was enlisting.

Porco clears his throat and scrubs his arm over his eyes. “Reiner… this is Marcel. My brother.”

“Hi, Marcel.” Reiner’s voice is quiet and deeply respectful, recognizing the solemnity of the moment. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“He…” Porco pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. “He would have liked you.” He makes an unattractive snorting sound that’s caught between a laugh and a sob. “I think you guys would have been friends.”

“I’m sure I would have liked him too.” Out of the corner of his eye, Erwin notices Reiner slip his arm around Porco’s shoulders, and when he speaks up again, he addresses the grave directly. “You’d be so proud of Galliard, Marcel. I’ve never met anyone who works as hard as he does.” Porco starts to protest, and Reiner’s arm tightens around his shoulders. “He took really good care of Sarge, too. He was well-cared for and loved all the way to the end.”

And there isn’t much to say beyond that, and the three of them simply stand, lost in their thoughts, in front of Marcel’s grave for a few moments, as the wind whispers through the dogwood’s branches and drops white flowers onto their shoulders.

Porco breaks the silence by clearing his throat again, and gently shrugging off Reiner’s arm. “You two can go sit down now. I’ve got work to do.”

“What?” Reiner is clearly taken aback, and Erwin wonders with faint amusement if this is the first time he’s come up directly against Porco’s bullheadedness. “I was going to help you!”

“No.” Porco shifts the shovels to one hand and slips the other one into the bag Reiner is holding, coming out with the jar of ashes. He crouches to place it carefully, reverently, next to the headstone, before straightening up and turning to fully face Reiner. “I have to do this myself.”

“But…” Reiner starts to protest, but then he must recognize the steely look in Porco’s eyes, because he drops back. “Okay.”

“C’mon, son.” Erwin claps Reiner on the shoulder and starts gently steering him back towards the truck. “We’ll be waiting when you’re done, Porkchop.”

“Okay.” As Erwin leads Reiner away, he hears the hiss of a shovel breaking the earth’s surface and sliding under the grass.

Reiner follows Erwin back to the truck, and they set up the lawn chairs under the shade of the tree, where it’s a little cooler. Erwin brought a cooler full of ice and drinks, and he retrieves it from the truck’s bed, offering Reiner a bottle of iced tea that he accepts gratefully. Erwin can’t help smiling a little as Reiner quaffs it all in one go, and has another one in hand when Reiner puts it down.

“Not used to the heat yet?”

“Ah…” Reiner looks at the empty bottle in his hand like he’s surprised to see it drained, then chuckles to himself. “I guess not.”

He takes another bottle but sips this one, and Erwin settles back in his chair to wait. Porco is working hard over the grave, already sweating and looking put out, but he has a respectable little pile of dirt next to Marcel’s headstone, and has broken through all the grass and lifted it whole off the patch where he’s digging, so it’s ready to be put back in place when he’s done.

Reiner sighs. “I wish he’d let us help him.”

“I do too, son, but that’s not in Pok’s nature.” Erwin watches as Porco lifts up another shovelful of dirt, and his heart feels like it’s going to burst with love for the boy. “He’s always been independent, but I suppose you already figured that out, haven’t you?”

Another self-conscious chuckle from Reiner. “Have I ever…”

Erwin waits patiently after that, assuming Reiner has more to say but not wanting to push him on it, and he’s not disappointed. After a few moments of warring with his thoughts, Reiner speaks up again.

“Galliard… Pok… he’s struggling, up in Trost. It’s an expensive city, and he’s trying to go to school, and work, and juggle a bunch of different things.”

“He was never one to shy away from a challenge.”

“No, he’s not, and that’s one of the things I lo—that I like about him.” 

Erwin covers his mouth with his hand, so Reiner won’t see him smile at that little slip-up. Reiner loves him, does he? Good. At least he’s aware of it, and god knows Pok needs some love.

“But I want to _help_ him,” Reiner continues, blustering past his vocal faux pas. “I make enough money that I could help him out, and I _want_ to, but…”

“But you don’t think he’ll accept it?”

“Yes.” Reiner turns to Erwin in gratitude, his expression making it clear that he’s deeply glad someone understands. “He’s even told me before that he doesn’t want charity.”

Erwin shakes his head and takes a long drink of iced tea. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He pauses then, tapping the bottle’s rim against his lower lip, trying to decide how much to tell Reiner. He doesn’t know the entire story, of course—the seven years Porco has spent in Trost are largely a blank to him, although he had known Pok was attending college—but he can give Reiner the outline of what happened during Porco’s childhood, and what happened to Marcel. He was going to keep it to himself, but he has something to tell Porco, something big, and he thinks Porco will need Reiner’s support when he gets that information. A little background knowledge, the basic gist of it without the details, couldn’t hurt.

“What’s your profession, Reiner?”

“Me? I’m a lawyer.” Reiner blinks in surprise at the change of subject. “Copyright and intellectual property rights.”

Erwin nods, impressed. “I take it you’re comfortable?”

“Monetarily? Yes.”

Interesting answer, and Erwin takes another sip of tea. “You like your job?”

Reiner shrugs. “It’s work. It pays the bills.”

“So no.”

Reiner looks shocked at Erwin’s bald statement, but then shakes his head. “No. I didn’t… I didn’t go to law school to sit at home and look over chemical formulas all day.”

“What kind of law would you want to practice, given the choice?”

“Family law.” Reiner has that answer ready in an instant, much faster than Erwin would have guessed, meaning he’s thought this over before. “I want to help families stay together, or kids go to the parent who would be best for them.”

“Noble.” Erwin smiles, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes; there’d been a time, long ago, when he and Mike had discussed trying to get custody of Marcel and Porco. The idea had never been more than that—an idea—one doomed to never get off the ground, but they’d talked about it endlessly, the summer when Porco’s arm was in a cast and Marcel had had to go to lots of dental appointments. “But not terribly profitable.”

Reiner laughs, the sound bitter and self-deprecating. “Not profitable at all. But enough. Enough for me.” He waves a hand at Porco, still sweating over the grave. “Enough for him, too, if he’d let me help him.”

Erwin nods, and watches Porco dig for another moment, choosing his words carefully before he speaks again. “I’m sure you’ve figured this out by now, but Pok didn’t have much growing up.” Reiner opens his mouth to interrupt, but Erwin holds up a hand to silence him. “His family was always dirt poor. Now, I love my sister, but the man she married…” Erwin can feel his mouth twisting in distaste, and he makes a conscious effort to straighten it out. “He leaves something to be desired.”

Reiner is watching him closely now, all his attention focused on Erwin, except for one hand that drifts to his face and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Is that why they spent so much time with you and Mike?”

“Yes.” So much time, and not nearly enough; Erwin would have gladly taken all three of them into his home, even back before Mike started adding to it and it wasn’t much more than a tarpaper shack, but his sister was bound and determined to have the kind of family that had been lost to her when their father died, and nothing Erwin could say would convince her otherwise. Porco comes by his stubborn streak honestly enough, he supposes, the trait passed down on his mother’s side like the red hair Porco shares with the grandfather he never met. “When they were with Mike and I, they were safe, and my sister is smart enough to know that much, at least.”

Reiner is rubbing his nose so hard it looks like he’s trying to flay the skin off it. “Was he abusive?”

“He’s not a good man.” Which is as close to saying yes as Erwin is willing to get. If Reiner wants more details about Porco’s childhood, then that’s Porco’s story to tell, not Erwin’s. “The point is, all Porco knew growing up was poverty. Mike and I did what we could, what we were _allowed_ to do, but…” Erwin shrugs, splaying his hands out over his knees; this part of the story hurts just as badly as he thought it would, and brings the acid taste of old helplessness to the back of his tongue. “But we knew no judge was going to take any young boys away from their daddy and give them to their uncle who was a little bit touched in the head.”

“You mean gay.” Reiner’s voice is flat, and he’s dropped his hand into his lap. “They wouldn’t give them to you because you’re gay.”

“Be honest, Reiner.” Erwin waits until Reiner has lifted his eyes and is looking at him, directly at him. “Would that happen today? Even in Trost?”

To his credit, Reiner thinks about it for a moment before sighing and shaking his head in defeat. “No. Not without a damn good lawyer.”

“And we’ve never been the kind of family that could afford good lawyers.”

Erwin needs a break; they’re digging at old wounds here, things he thought he’d laid to rest a long time ago, and he’s finding that even buried horrors still have the power to cut and draw blood. Reiner has his head down, his brow burrowed in thought, and Erwin reaches into the cooler for another iced tea. When the weather is like this, you can drink and drink and drink, and you’ll just sweat it all out in a moment.

“I’m telling you all this so you understand.” Reiner lifts his head back up when Erwin starts speaking again, his laser-focus both impressive and intimidating at the same time. “Pok grew up with nothing, and learned to depend on himself from a young age. It’s damn hard for him to ask for help.”

Reiner nods, looking thoughtful. “He called me. When Sarge got sick. He called me and asked me to come to him.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Erwin can’t help smiling a little at that, even as he shakes his head and sighs. “He’ll never actually _ask_ for help, but if you’re paying attention, it’s pretty clear what he wants.”

Reiner nods again, his gaze on Porco, who has gotten about knee-deep in the hole by now. He’s sweated through his shirt, dark v’s standing out along his spine and under his arms, and the skin on the back of his neck is starting to redden, even with the shade of the tree protecting him. Reiner just watches him for a moment, and Erwin knows that look: it’s the same way Mike looks at him, sometimes, when he thinks Erwin isn’t paying attention.

“You brought two shovels.”

“I did.” Erwin bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, and reaches into the cooler to fish out a couple of fresh bottles of tea.

“You knew he wouldn’t let us help him dig.” Reiner rises out of his chair and reaches for the bottles, which Erwin passes to him.

“I knew he’d say he wanted to do it himself.”

Reiner nods, and then flashes a smile so bright and brilliant that Erwin can see, without any doubt, why Porco fell in love with him. Marcel used to smile like that, used to brighten up an entire room with his cheerfulness and warmth, and while nothing will ever replace him in Erwin’s heart, he hopes—god, _he hopes_ —that Porco will keep this one around. “No point in letting good tea go to waste. Or a shovel go unused.”

“Nope.” Erwin slouches down a little, getting comfortable in his chair, and pulls his hat down low, shading his eyes. “Now go help your man dig.”

“Yes, sir.” Reiner hesitates, just a moment, and his voice wavers the faintest bit. “Thank you, sir.”

Erwin waves a hand at him. “My pleasure. Now go.”

Reiner heads off in the direction of the grave and Porco, and Erwin closes his eyes to give them some privacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, it's back! Please enjoy the Erwin-narrated chapter.
> 
> A few housekeeping things: for the time being, anonymous comments have been disabled. I apologize to all the supportive, kind anons who have commented and been supportive, but I don't want any more nastiness from other anons, attacking either me or, worse yet, other fans of Jaws. 
> 
> If there are any fans of CanCan reading this: I am perfectly willing to have a civil, rational discussion with you. However, any comments trying to be rude or denigrate my work/friends/fandom/personal life choices will be deleted immediately. I have neither the time nor patience to deal with Internet bullying.
> 
> Whew! Moving on, the next chapter will take them back to Trost and switch to Reiner narration. This isn't the last of Erwin or Mike, but they'll be in flashbacks. There are also about four chapters of Jaws left. We're closing in on the finish line!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys go home, and both realize a few things.
> 
> Please read the chapter end notes if you're confused about what happens in the chapter.

Galliard is quiet and pensive on the plane ride back to Trost; he’s been quiet for the last two days, ever since they buried Sarge—he hadn’t wanted Reiner’s help, had tried to chase him away but not very hard, and they’d ended up burying the dog together—but this is a new level of silence and moodiness, and Reiner is glad when, once they’re in the air, Galliard nods off on his shoulder.

Reiner shifts around to make sure he’s comfortable and won’t wake up with a strained neck, then stares out the window, watching but not really seeing anything as the middle of the country streams away beneath him. He’d known that things were going to change after going to Liberio, but he hadn’t realized exactly how _much_.

~*~

_”I have something to tell you, Porco.”_

_Galliard glances up from his plate, where he’d been almost dozing. Digging a hole deep enough to satisfy his standards had been a grueling ordeal, and after getting back from the cemetery, he’d taken a shower and crashed out. Reiner had been a gentlemen and let him shower first, then cleaned himself off; by the time he’d padded into their shared bedroom, Galliard was sound asleep on Reiner’s bed. Reiner had napped in the other one, and woken up a few hours later to Galliard sprawled on top of him, drooling on his chest. There’d been something achingly familiar about that, and Reiner had let him sleep for another half hour before waking him up. Galliard had perked up a little for dinner, but now that he’s full, he’s starting to sink back towards sleep again._

_Erwin looks solemn across the table, and Mike reaches out to take one of his hands. Reiner lifts an eyebrow; Erwin is one of the strongest people he’s ever met, and if he needs support for this, it must be something serious. He clears his throat._

_“Should I excuse myself?”_

_“No, Reiner, that won’t be necessary.” Erwin favors Reiner with a smile. “This is something that could affect you too.”_

_That catches Galliard’s attention, and he sits up straighter, glancing at Reiner and then putting his fork down. “What’s going on?”_

_Erwin sighs, and for a moment, looks older and more tired than Reiner has ever seen him, very much a man on the downward slope of life, just starting to be past his prime. Mike squeezes his hand, the muscles in his forearm rippling, and Erwin gives himself a little shake before beginning to speak._

_“Your brother died in combat…”_

_“I know.” Galliard’s voice is tight and bitter. “I remember that phone call telling me about it very well.”_

_“I’m sure you do.” Erwin sighs again. “When a soldier falls in combat, they get a settlement from the government. A way of thanking them for their service. It normally goes to their spouse, but Marcel wasn’t married, so…”_

_“So it went to Daddy.” Galliard is radiating tension and misery from every pore, and Reiner touches the back of his hand, only to have his pushed away. “And he spent all of it on booze and hillbilly shit and now it’s all gone. Why’re you telling me this?”_

_“Because it didn’t go to your daddy, Porco.” Erwin meets Galliard’s eyes, and there’s a certain quiet dignity in his gaze that Reiner knows he’ll be spending the rest of his life trying to emulate. “Marcel filled out a form to have it go to you.”_

_The room goes so silent that Reiner can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears as Galliard digests that information, and he can’t even imagine what’s going through his mind; all those years of working, of scrimping and struggling, and for what?_

_“How… why didn’t you tell me?” Reiner has to admire Galliard’s control when he asks that question; his voice is still taut and agonized, but he isn’t shouting, and when Reiner touches his hand again, Galliard seizes it and grips it so hard that Reiner’s joints squeal under the pressure._

_Erwin sighs again, and this time, it’s Mike who answers, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “You weren’t eighteen yet when he died, so your daddy contested it. It’s been tied up in court for years now.”_

_Galliard closes his eyes and leans his head back, and Reiner isn’t at all surprised to see tears perking up under his eyelashes. “That lowdown, stinking sack of shit… of course he did. Can’t let the little fag boy have it, could he?”_

_“Hey.” Reiner leans in, bumping his shoulder against Galliard’s, squeezing his hand back. “Stop talking about my boyfriend like that.”_

_Galliard makes a growling sound, but his grip on Reiner’s hand doesn’t loosen, and after a moment, he leans in against him. “Is it still in court?”_

_“No.” Erwin shakes his head. “It cleared a few days before you came down.” He glances down at his hand, joined with Mike’s. “We were going to call you, but then…”_

_“You called first,” Mike finishes, and Erwin smiles at him gratefully._

_Another few moments of silence, and Galliard turns his head into Reiner’s shoulder, making the nuzzling movements he does when he wants to be held but won’t ask for it. Reiner gently pries his hand free and lifts his arm, letting Galliard tuck in against his side and holding him close. “So how much is it?”_

_“Your brother wanted it divided three ways. He set aside twenty percent for your mother…” Galliard snorts rudely and mutters something under his breath about that money going straight to his shit father, which Erwin chooses to ignore and talk over. “Ten percent to Mike and I, and the rest for you.” He spreads his palms wide in apology. “Some of it gotten eaten up by court fees, I’m afraid. We tried to avoid that as much as possible, but it got pricey over the years.”_

_“I understand.” Galliard lifts his head and pins Erwin with his gaze. “After the court fees and thirty percent and everything, how much is left?”_

_Erwin names a figure. It’s lower than Reiner would have thought, considering that it’s the cost of a young man’s life, but it’s still a handsome sum. It’s enough to make Galliard sit bolt upright, Reiner’s arm sliding off his shoulder, and when he and Reiner glance at each, his eyes are wide and dazed, and Reiner knows they’re both thinking about the same thing._

_Galliard’s internship._

~*~

Galliard barely stirs for the entirety of the plane ride, only startling awake when the plane lands and its tires bounce off the tarmac. He looks around wildly, scrabbling for Reiner’s hand, and Reiner chuckles quietly and squeezes him.

“You’re fine. We just landed.”

“We’re on the ground again?” Some of the fear goes out of Galliard’s eyes, but he still makes a grab for one of Reiner’s hands, and he lets him.

“Yeah. We’re back in Trost.”

“Oh.” Galliard lets out a long, sighing breath and sits back in his seat, pinning Reiner’s arm against the back of it. “Okay.”

The plane doesn’t taxi long, and they don’t have bags to pick up, so Reiner breezes Galliard through the airport and to his waiting parked car. Reiner pays the parking fee—Galliard goes for his wallet and Reiner swats him away—and then they’re pulling out onto the highway an Reiner realizes he doesn’t know where they’re going. 

“Uh… where do you want to go?”

Galliard doesn’t answer right away; he has his wallet open across his lap, and Reiner knows he’s looking at the check Erwin wrote for him this morning, touching it as if to reassure himself that it’s real. 

“Gali?”

“Hmmm?” Galliard looks up, blinking, and then gives his head a little shake. “My place. Can you take me to my place?”

“Of course.” And Reiner merges into traffic, trying to hide how much that response hurts. He’d hoped Galliard would ask to be taken back to Reiner’s apartment, the place Reiner is slowly starting to think of as _their_ place, rather than the cinderblock prison where he’d lived with Sarge.

There’s traffic on the expressway, because of course there is, and Reiner has to slow to a crawl. Galliard doesn’t complain about the delay, just keeps looking out the window, his gaze distant and far away. It worries Reiner; for all his secrets and aloofness, Galliard has never been terribly good at hiding his emotions, nor skilled at hiding them. This moody, introspective quality is worrying, and Reiner almost speaks up a dozen times before closing his mouth and letting things rest as they are. 

Maybe Galliard is just tired.

They’re creeping their way across an overpass when Galliard suddenly speaks up, his voice startlingly loud in the silent car.

“I was on a bus when I found out.”

Reiner looks over at him; traffic is basically stopped, so he doesn’t feel badly about taking his eyes off the road. “What?”

“When Marcel… when I found out he died.” Galliard is still looking out the window, but Reiner sees his throat work as he swallows. “I was on a bus. To Trost. Erwin called me.”

“Oh.” Reiner isn’t sure where this is coming from, but it feels like something that needs to come out. “Why were you on a bus?”

“I was supposed to meet him here.” Galliard gestures out the window, encompassing all of Trost with a simple hand wave. “He was getting out in September, and I was going to get everything set up and Sarge settled and start school.” Galliard swallows again, and Reiner can hear his breath rattling in his chest. “I had to leave early. In August. I was only supposed to be here by myself for about a week before he got here, but I had to leave early. So I was on a bus when… when I found out.”

“I’m so sorry, Gali.”

Galliard shakes his head. “Wasn’t your fault.” He lifts a hand and touches the skin under his eye, where his cheekbone juts out, and starts rubbing across it. There’s a certain unconscious quality to the gesture that makes Reiner wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it. “I got kicked out.”

“Erwin kicked you out?” That sounds absurd, and the look Galliard shoots Reiner, like he’s the stupidest motherfucker to ever walk the earth, makes it clear that he agrees.

“No. Erwin would never kick me out.” He rubs at his eye again, his fingers rasping over the delicate skin. “My daddy did. He… he caught me kissing a guy.”

Reiner has no words for that, beyond quickly swiping at the bridge of his nose, and then reaching across the car to put a hand on Galliard’s leg. Galliard’s muscles tighten under Reiner’s palm for a moment, then he relaxes and reaches down to take Reiner’s hand instead.

“So I left early, and I was on my way here, and Erwin called and told me, and I… I couldn’t go back.” Galliard looks down at his lap, and his grip on Reiner’s hand is that of a drowning man, clinging to the only lifeline he has. “It was supposed to be _better_ here. Marcel knew why I left early, and he… he was going to talk to our parents and smooth it over, but then he _died_ , and I was here, and I couldn’t go back!”

Galliard’s voice has risen until it cracks, a strangled little yelp, and he takes a deep breath, scrubbing furiously at his face. “I couldn’t go back. I had to make it work here.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.” And Reiner is, deeply and genuinely sorry that Galliard had to deal with all of that on his own, but also touched that he’s sharing this with him. He’d wondered how Galliard had ended up in Trost, especially when Erwin and Mike are so supportive and kind, but neither of Galliard’s uncles had been willing to tell the story. And it’s better that they didn’t. It’s better that it’s coming from Galliard. “I’m sure it was a struggle to get things started here.”

Galliard laughs and shakes his head, the sound bitter and sardonic. “You have no idea.”

Reiner waits, but Galliard is apparently done talking for now, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and when traffic picks up again, Reiner has to take his hand back to steer the car.

~*~

_”You don’t have much of a relationship with your daddy either, do you?”_

_Reiner looks up in surprise, nearly banging his thumb with the hammer he’s holding. It’s their last day in Liberio, and Galliard and Erwin have driven to the store to stock up for a goodbye barbecue and, Reiner suspects, to have a heart-to-heart talk in privacy. He and Mike have stayed behind, and Mike has been kind enough to let Reiner help with some cabinetry he’s working on. Reiner has never done any woodworking before, but he’s a quick study, and has already graduated from sanding to hammering in nails._

_“Sir?” Neither Mike or Erwin had asked to be called sir, but Reiner finds that it just comes out of his mouth when talking to them, a title of respect that he can’t help using._

_Mike shrugs, and reaches out to gently correct Reiner’s grip on the hammer. “You don’t get enough force if you hold it there. Let it swing natural.”_

_Reiner adjusts his grip and tries again, and this time, he doesn’t even come close to hitting his hand._

_Mike nods in approval. “Much better.”_

_Then he turns back to the carving he was working on, and Reiner realizes he isn’t going to ask the question again. Mike knows he heard it, and is leaving it up to him on whether to answer or not._

_It still takes Reiner a few minutes, and several more nails, to screw up his courage and answer. “No, sir. I’ve only met my father once.”_

_Mike raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, and somehow, that simple lack of judgment makes Reiner want to tell him more. “My mom was seventeen when she got pregnant. My dad was thirty-three, and married. To someone else.”_

_Mike nods. “I take it he wasn’t pleased by the news?”_

_“Not at all.” Reiner doesn’t get into the rest of it; the money for an abortion that his father sent; his mother’s refusal, and subsequent shaming from her family; their life on their own; his mother’s later feverish devotion to religion and refusal to accept him. He gets the sense that it would be an old story to Mike, one he’s heard before, and possibly lived himself. “I looked him up when I was graduating high school, though.”_

_“You wanted to go meet him?”_

_Reiner shrugs, his chest and eyes stinging with old hurt that he thought was long forgotten. “I was eighteen, so he wouldn’t think I was after child support, or money. I’d been accepted to college, I had a scholarship, I was going to_ make _something of myself. I thought… I thought that maybe he’d want to, you know… get to know me.”_

_And deep down, in some distant corner of himself that Reiner had barely understood then, he’d hoped that his father would accept having a gay son, and not hate him for something he couldn’t change._

_Mike is quiet beside him, waiting patiently for Reiner to continue, and after a moment, Reiner feels enough in control of himself to tell the rest of the story. It’s a shitty story without a happy ending, one that only Bertolt knows about, one that Reiner hadn’t ever even told Jean, but if Galliard has been brave enough to take Reiner to his hometown and introduce him to his brother, then Reiner should have the stones to tell this one._

_But not to Galliard. Not yet. He needs to practice with Mike first._

_“He… he didn’t.” Reiner realizes he’s rubbing his nose, the way he always does when he thinks about this, and for the first time in years, admits what that means. “He broke my nose. Gave me this.” He turns to Mike and points out the hump in the bridge of his nose. “That, and my looks. Turns out I look just like him.”_

_Mike shakes his head, and drops a hand on Reiner’s shoulder. There are very few people in the world who make Reiner feel small, but Mike does; his hand feels like a giant’s, resting on Reiner’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than that.”_

_Reiner swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “My mom was furious about my graduation photos. I have a black eye and a nose that looks like a gourd in them.” He looks away from Mike, unable to make eye contact anymore. “I told her I broke it playing football.”_

_Because then, as now, that had seemed better than telling her the truth._

_Mike leaves his hand on Reiner’s shoulder for another moment, then lifts it and quietly returns to his work. The rasp of sandpaper and scrape of curls of wood falling away masks Reiner’s rapid breathing until he gets it back under control, and once he does, he picks up the hammer and smacks the shit out of a couple of nails, driving them all the way into the wood with one blow._

_“Have you told Porco this story?” Mike asks several minutes later, once Reiner has lost himself in the rhythm of the work._

_Reiner shakes his head, not trusting his voice to work properly quite yet._

_“You should.” Mike glances up from his sandpaper, and his eyes are deep and sad, shadowed by memory. “He’d understand it better than you think.”_

~*~

By some miracle, Reiner snags a parking spot right in front of Galliard’s building. He guides his car into it, then leaves it running, unsure if he’ll be welcome upstairs. But then Galliard turns to him, and his expression is such a blend of anticipation and nerves that it makes Reiner want to gather him into his arms and just hold him for the rest of their lives.

“Aren’t you coming up?”

“Yeah.” Reiner parks the car and turns it off. “Of course.”

The walk to the apartment building is a gauntlet of memories, of unsettled ghosts. Reiner notices the flower bed where Sarge crashed into the tulips after a tennis ball, now overgrown and with no evidence of the dog’s swath of destruction; he sees the corner of the building where the bricks are slightly discolored, where Sarge always relieved his bladder; he even notices trash swirling in the gutter, one of Sarge’s favorite places to sniff and investigate. Galliard walks with his head down, watching his feet and the sidewalk, and Reiner knows he’s trying to shut out the ghosts that he doesn’t want to see.

If it’s bad down here, Reiner can’t imagine what it’ll be like in Galliard’s apartment.

They ride the creaking, cramped elevator in silence, and when they reach Galliard’s door, he heaves a great, exhausted sigh before digging in his pocket for his keys and letting them both in.

The apartment is silent and dusty, the feeling of neglect and misery palpable. Everywhere Reiner looks, there’s a reminder of Sarge, from his two bed still frosted with grizzled white fur to the abandoned tennis ball sitting in the corner and moldering. It even smells like dog in the apartment, the scent faint, lingering in the walls and the fabric of Galliard’s worn futon.

Reiner closes the door behind him, then nearly runs into Galliard, who’s stopped just inside the door. Reiner can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s struggling, that he’s fighting internal battles that he knew were coming but that he couldn’t prepare for, and Reiner wraps his arms around Galliard’s waist. He stays silent, just holds him, and Galliard leans back against his chest.

They stand that way for a few moments, until Galliard clears his throat and shifts in Reiner’s arms. Reiner loosens his grip, expecting Galliard to pull away.

~*~

But Galliard doesn't! They talk about all sorts of things, and then Reiner gets some valuable intel! It's very dramatic and taut, and it ends with them having sex.

~*~

“Galliard. Gali.”

“Hmmmm?”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Mmmm, yeah.” The sound of yawning in the darkness. “In a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Reiner smiles, and keeps playing with Galliard’s hair. “In a few minutes.”

As they lay in the dark, with Galliard drifting off beside him again, Reiner makes a decision. There’s something he needs to do, and if he’s going to do this with Galliard, he needs to do it as soon as possible, to wipe the slate clean and begin things fresh and right.

He needs to make things right with Jean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! So a bunch of things happened, a bunch of _important_ things, and a lot of those things were summarized! What the hell, MissAzrael/Krakeryn? Did you just get lazy on us?
> 
> Not at all, friends. On my computer, this chapter is 7500 words. However, I've still been having problems with plagiarism; the most recent upload of CanCan was just two days ago (don't worry, it's been taken down). I don't want to feed that demon, so the parts of the story they'd be most likely to want to steal (the confession, the resolution, and the sex scene after) got the summary treatment.
> 
> HOWEVER! Just because other people are shits doesn't mean you have to miss out on what really happened with this chapter. Please message me, either here or on Tumblr or Twitter (user name Krakeryn on both), and I'll send you the link to where you can read the full chapter. Make sure to tell me who you are. 
> 
> I'm sorry to have to do this, but it's the only way I could think of to let all of you enjoy Jaws while also keeping my story safe. Thanks for understanding, and hope you enjoyed!
> 
>  
> 
> :UPDATE:
> 
> Hello, friends. It's now March, 2019, and CanCan continues to be posted around the Internet. This shit has been going on for over six months now. One of the things I've noticed is that every time CanCan makes a reappearance, if it's up long enough to get comments, is that people start whining for an update, or a conclusion to the story. 
> 
> This chapter is, quite frankly, the only one that my pet plagiarist could steal to conclude CanCan.
> 
> As such, I've made the decision to shut it down permanently. I won't be sending it out in its entirety anymore, as I'm paranoid about it getting stolen for CanCan. I apologize if you're new here and genuinely want to read the rest of the story, but I'm sick and tired of Jaws getting stolen and misrepresented, and I don't want to give the plagiarist the pleasure of being able to complete their thievery. 
> 
> For now, and for the foreseeable future, you'll have to trust that this chapter is, in fact, complete, and that it may someday be available in its full form.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean gets to narrate, and Reiner finally finds out what happened between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Slight content warning here: Jean talks about some fairly raw stuff, particularly about being out and honest in a professional environment, so be prepared for that. If there's anything I'm missing or you want me to be more specific here in the early notes, please let me know.

**Reiner Braun: hi**

**Jean Kirschstein: hey!  
Jean Kirschstein: how’s everything going?**

**Reiner Braun: good  
Reiner Braun: a lot better now  
Reiner Braun: had a few rough months there**

**Jean Kirschstein: ah  
Jean Kirschstein: yeah, I know  
Jean Kirschstein: sorry about that**

**Reiner Braun: how did you know?**

**Jean Kirschstein: ???**

**Reiner Braun: about how I was doing**

**Jean Kirschstein: I asked Bert  
Jean Kirschstein: and Ymir volunteered some stuff**

**Reiner Braun: I’m sure she did**

**Jean Kirschstein: yeah  
Jean Kirschstein: so you’re doing better?  
Jean Kirschstein: I mean, obviously you are  
Jean Kirschstein: I heard about your new guy  
Jean Kirschstein: congrats**

**Reiner Braun: legit congrats?  
Jean Kirschstein: the most legit!  
Jean Kirschstein: I’m genuinely happy for you  
Jean Kirschstein: Bert says he’s a good guy**

**Reiner Braun: Bertolt just likes having a fresh audience for embarrassing stories**

**Jean Kirschstein: who doesn’t?**

**Reiner Braun: are you busy this week?**

**Jean Kirschstein: um  
Jean Kirschstein: as long as no new cases pop up  
Jean Kirschstein: I’m in court most of this week**

**Reiner Braun: you made detective?**

**Jean Kirschstein: I did!**

**Reiner Braun: congratulations**

**Jean Kirschstein: thank you  
Jean Kirschstein: do you want to meet for lunch or something?**

**Reiner Braun: yes**

**Jean Kirschstein: okay, cool  
Jean Kirschstein: you remember that diner near the courthouse?**

**Reiner Braun: sure**

**Jean Kirschstein: Tuesday around 1 work for you?**

**Reiner Braun: that’s fine**

**Jean Kirschstein: okay  
Jean Kirschstein: see you then**

~*~

By the time Tuesday rolls around and they’re walking to the diner, Jean is so nervous his hands are shaking, and he starts dragging his feet.

Marco notices—of course he does, he notices everything—and slows his own pace, tilting his head and watching Jean out of his one eye. “You okay?”

“Yes. No.” Jean grits his teeth, irritated at his indecision, and manages a few long, rapid steps before slowing down again. “I don’t know.”

Marco is still watching him—the bastard barely had to stretch his legs to keep up—and Jean knows that look. “Are you sure you want to see him?”

“Don’t.” Jean holds a hand up, and Marco closes his mouth. “It’s not like that. It’s not like one of our cases.” 

“Okay.” Marco is nothing if not agreeable, and he drops the topic. “I’ve just never seen you this nervous before.”

Jean’s going to need a bigger bite splint, the way he’s grinding his teeth today. “It’s… complicated.”

More complicated than Marco knows. He knows about Reiner, at least a little bit, but he doesn’t know all the details. He doesn’t know about how Jean found Reiner’s computer with a window open to a men’s wedding ring page; he doesn’t know about the way Reiner kept dropping hints about getting married, and how it had felt like a vise closing in Jean’s chest every time he did; he doesn’t know about Reiner’s mother, and how she always mispronounced Jean’s name, always leaning a little too hard into a hard _e_ sound for it to be a coincidence, and the way she’d watched Jean, like a predator trying to decide if the brightly colored prey is worth a possible poisoning. Marco knows a lot about Jean—it’d be hard for him not to, after ten months sitting next to him in the office and in a squad car—but Jean hasn’t told him all the details. 

Jean _can’t_ tell him all the details, much as he might want to. Marco is his work partner, and a man who holds strict to the force’s policies on outside fraternization. It doesn’t matter that he’s basically grown into Jean’s best friend, now that Reiner is out of Jean’s life, or that he’d probably understand a lot of what Jean wants to tell him. 

There has to be some distance between them. Things get too complicated if there isn’t.

It’s probably a bad idea to have Marco with him today, but Reiner had messaged last night and mentioned that his new boyfriend was tagging along. With anyone else, Jean would think that was a power move, designed to show off how he’s moved on, but he thinks Reiner’s motives are more pure. Jean thinks that maybe, just maybe, Reiner is as worried and nervous as he is, and needs the moral support. After what he put Reiner through, Jean knows he can’t deny Reiner that.

But he’d also been deeply, deeply grateful when Marco had offered, breezily and casually, like he isn’t aware how fraught this situation is, to come with him.

Jean pauses when they get to the big plate window of the diner, and peers inside. Marco stands beside him, placid and powerful at the same time, his broad hands in the pockets of his suit coat, and studies the clouds while Jean scans the diner with a beat cop’s eyes. It doesn’t take him long to spot Reiner.

He’s sitting with his back to the door, a habit he’d picked up while with Jean, who always wanted to be able to see the exit, and the fact that he’s still doing it tugs at Jean’s heartstrings. It’s crazy, the things you pick up from each other and then carry with you. Jean can only see his back, but he looks… he looks good. Jean had almost forgotten how broad Reiner’s shoulders are, and how they stretch the fabric of his shirts. He _had_ forgotten how Reiner’s hair catches the sunlight, and the way it shines gold, or how Reiner always sits with one arm draped over the back of a booth seat. Once upon a time, Jean would have scooted under that draping arm, and he has to swallow at the sudden onslaught of memories.

“It’s not easy, is it?” Marco asks softly, and Jean shakes his head. No… no, it’s not easy.

Easier to focus on the man sitting across from Reiner. Jean can’t see much of him, not with Reiner’s shoulders blocking him, but he catches a glimpse of red hair, slicked back and laying flat against the man’s skull, and a bright, attentive face, animated and paying attention to whatever Reiner is saying. Then Reiner throws his head back, laughing at something the man said, and Jean rapidly blinks his eyes.

He knew this was going to be hard, but he didn’t know it was going to be _this_ hard.

Marco touches Jean’s arm, snagging his attention away from the scene before them. “Come on.” His voice is soft and soothing, but also brooks no room for argument. “Waiting won’t make it any easier.”

Jean nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it won’t.” He gently brushes off Marco’s hand, squares his shoulders, and strides into the diner.

A bell chimes as they enter, and Reiner turns in his seat. His eyes meet Jean’s, and the first thing Jean notices is how good Reiner looks. Not only handsome—he’s always been one of the most handsome men Jean has ever seen—but just _good_ , healthy and fit and almost glowing with happiness. Had he ever looked like that when they were together? Did Jean ever make him that happy?

Reiner starts to get out of the booth, and Jean manages to crack a smile as he crosses the diner, his hand already extended to shake. “Hey, man…”

Reiner completely ignores Jean’s hand and goes in for a hug, a quick, masculine embrace, complete with a thump on the back, and it’s the most relieving thing Jean has ever received. Reiner _never_ hugged him like that, fast and informal and affectionate but not loving, when they were together, and if Jean has been demoted to this kind of hug, it means that they’re really, really not together anymore. Reiner has moved on, thank god, and Jean’s smile sits more comfortably on his face as they pull apart.

“Hey.” Reiner smiles at him, holding Jean out at an arm’s length so he can look at him. “Look at you, wearing a suit and testifying and being a detective.”

“Hey.” Behind Reiner, the other guy stands up, his expression pensive and brooding, but Marco smoothly steps around Jean and intercepts him. “Look at you. Shit, did your shoulders get wider?”

That makes Reiner grin, and for some reason, his new boyfriend perks up when he hears that. “I’m benching three hundred now.”

Jean whistles. “ _Damn_.”

Reiner nods in agreement. “Damn.”

“Hi.” Reiner’s new boyfriend has escaped Marco, and shoves his hand at Jean to shake. Up close, he’s good looking enough; broad and muscular, not terribly tall, about Jean’s height, with a boyish face and upturned nose, and bright, inquisitive hazel eyes. His hair is what makes him stand out, red-blond and shining, slicked back but still catching the light, the first scruff of a reddish beard growing across his jaw. “I’m Galliard.”

Jean shakes his hand, well-prepared for the absolutely crushing handshake Galliard delivers, and waits for the rest of his name. Galliard just eyes him, and Jean realizes that’s all he’s getting. “Jean Kirschstein. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I’m Marco Bott.” Marco slides in-between them, a master of de-escalation, and offers Galliard his hand. “Jean and I are partners.”

“ _Work_ partners,” Jean clarifies, even though the thought of being Marco’s partner-partner makes his heart flutter.

Galliard looks back and forth between them for a moment, his eyes narrowing, then lets go of Jean’s hand and turns his attention to Marco. “So you’re a cop too?”

“Yes.” Marco smiles winningly at Galliard, and Jean can see him thaw out a little. It’s that Marco Bott magic, the kind that soothes the most frantic, anxious victims and chips away at obtuse, reluctant suspects, and Jean only hopes he can someday be half the officer Marco is. “Seven years on the force now. Do you want to go grab some lunch with me and listen to cop stories?”

Reiner chuckles under his breath. “Watch out, Galliard; once you get a cop going on work stories, it’s hard to stop them.”

Galliard glances back at Reiner, his eyes narrowed a little, one eyebrow lofted skyward, and Jean sees Reiner nod from the corner of his eye. Then Galliard’s attention is back on Marco, and he grabs Marco’s arm and starts leading him deeper into the diner. As they pass by, Jean hears Galliard ask “So what happened to your eye?”

Reiner watches them go, his expression soft and fond. “What _did_ happen to his eye?”

“Shrapnel from a stray bullet.” Jean slides into the booth Galliard had vacated, the vinyl seat still warm from Galliard’s body. “He can still see out of it if he wears glasses, but the eyepatch plays better to juries.”

Reiner grimaces as he sits back down, his hands immediately reaching for the chipped white mug of coffee on the table. “I can imagine.”

“Like lawyers don’t have their own tricks.”

Reiner shrugs with one shoulder. “Fair enough.” 

It’s acceptance where there would have once been an argument, and Jean feels something unclench in his chest, even as they descend into slightly awkward silence. The waitress comes by and distracts them for a few moments—yes, the other guy is over there now; yes, he still wants his sandwich; Jean will take a tuna melt and a Sprite, please—but that’s not enough for the frost between them to completely thaw. What do you say to someone when you know you broke their heart?

Jean is pondering that exact question when Reiner clears his throat. “You look like you’re doing well, Jean. I’m glad.”

“Thank you.” Even now, Jean craves Reiner’s approval, and he tries a hesitant smile at him. “You look like you are, too. Galliard seems like a good guy.”

Just as Jean expected, that makes Reiner smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners and dropping ten years off his face, making him look positively boyish. “He is. He’s… he’s really great. He means a lot to me.” Reiner lifts his head a little, looking over his shoulder to the booth where Galliard and Marco have set up camp. Jean can see them too, and it looks like they’re deep into some kind of debate, with Marco leaning forward with his hands clasped together, the way he does when they’re talking to suspects. It’s a move that only Marco, only charming, guileless Marco, can pull off; Jean has tried it and had it completely backfire on him. “Marco seems pretty interesting too.”

“He is. He’s helped me a lot with getting settled at the force.”

Reiner turns back around, lifting one of his thin eyebrows. “Are you two more than just work partners?”

Jean shakes his head. “No.”

He hopes that will be the end of this line of questioning, but no such luck. Reiner tilts his head a bit, watching him with bright, inquisitive eyes. “Do you want to be?”

Jean huffs frustrated laughter and pulls a sugar packet out of the table’s caddy so he can shred it to pieces. “Still playing matchmaker, huh?”

Reiner shrugs. “I like my friends to be happy.”

Jean can tell from the expression on Reiner’s face that they come to the same realization at the same time: Reiner just called Jean his friend. After everything they went through, Reiner still, on some level, thinks of Jean as his friend.

The silence stretches between them, taut and agonized, only broken when the waitress shows up to drop off their food. Thank god for diners and their fast service, but it’s time. It’s time to face this thing, and as he reaches for the ketchup, Jean asks the question he’s been wondering about ever since he got Reiner’s text. “Why did you want to see me, Reiner?”

Reiner doesn’t answer immediately; instead, he watches as Jean douses his fries with ketchup, and there’s a look on his face that’s caught between humor and sadness, and it takes Jean a moment to place. It’s nostalgia. Reiner is nostalgic for the stupid way Jean likes to drown his fries in sugar tomato paste.

“I wanted to ask you something. And to see how you’re doing.” Reiner lifts his eyes from Jean’s plate, and the corner of his mouth crooks up into a smile. “I’m really glad you’re doing well, Jean. Honestly and truly.”

“Thank you.” From behind them, Jean hears Marco laugh at something Galliard must have said, and he smiles back at Reiner, his first real smile all day. “That means a lot to me.”

Reiner’s smile widens, and for a couple of seconds, all the tension and awkwardness dissipates, and Jean remembers why he fell in love with Reiner in the first place.

“But I need to know: why did you leave?”

And there it is: the big question, the one Jean knew he was going to be asked, and the one that feels like it sucks all the air out of the room. He breaks eye contact, and stabs a french fry with a fork, lifting the dripping mess to his mouth and chewing to buy himself more time.

Reiner just waits for him, patient and placid, and Jean can’t even be mad at him. He knew this was coming, after all; Reiner has a right to ask this, and considering that he’s met someone new, he has the right to know.

“I wasn’t cheating on you.” Jean lifts his eyes to meet Reiner’s, as solemn and as serious as he’s ever been. “I never did.”

Reiner’s jaw gapes open. “How did you…”

Jean lifts an eyebrow. “How did I know you thought that?”

Reiner has the good grace to look flustered. “Yeah.”

“Bertolt told me.” Ymir did as well, in a colorful, expletive-and-threat-laden rant, but Jean sees no need to bring that up. “It wasn’t anything like that. I didn’t have anyone else, and there hasn’t been anyone since you.”

Jean could comment here on how quickly Reiner seems to have replaced _him_ , but he won’t. He gets it, on some level; Reiner needs to be loved a lot more than Jean does. No matter what happens in his personal life, Jean knows that his mom has his back, and that his extended family, while they might not always understand him, support him in their own ways. Reiner doesn’t have any of that, and has, consciously or not, spent his entire adult life seeking it out.

Jean plans on spending the entire afternoon, after their case is done, grilling Marco for information about Galliard, and if he seems like the kind of guy who’s up to the task. Reiner might not be Jean’s anymore, but that doesn’t mean Jean wants him miserable and constantly seeking.

“Okay.” Reiner is shifting nervously in his seat. “I owe you an apology then.”

Jean waves a hand at him. “None needed. I didn’t exactly leave you with much to go on, did I? You latched on to what made sense.”

Reiner nods, and he’s wearing his lawyer face now, pensive and considering, and Jean can practically hear the synapses firing in his head. “So, if there wasn’t anyone else… why, then? What did I do wrong?”

Jean winces, and draws back a little. It was the tone of Reiner’s voice, the way he’d sounded like the abandoned little boy he’d once been, that stabbed into Jean’s chest like a blade, and he reaches across the table to touch Reiner’s wrist. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Reiner shakes his head and draws his wrist out of Jean’s reach, refusing to be comforted. “I must have done _something_.”

“It wasn’t anything you were doing on purpose.”

“But it was _something_.”

Jean sighs; he knows that when Reiner gets an idea in his head, he’s not going to let it go. He’s also not wrong, and won’t let Jean off the hook. “When are you happiest, Reiner?”

Reiner’s brows knit together in an all-too-familiar expression of stubbornness, and Jean starts to mentally prepare himself for a battle. But then Reiner’s forehead smoothes out, he takes a sip of coffee while thinking, and answers readily enough.

“When I have something to do. I like having projects that I’m working on.”

Jean nods, surprised and not a little delighted by Reiner’s self-assessment. That came impressively fast, which means Reiner might have already been thinking about it for some reason, something in his life finally inspiring him to dig a little deeper into his own psyche, to try and iron out some of the damage done to him by his past.

Somewhere else in the diner, Galliard laughs, the sound drifting towards them, undercut by Marco’s low chuckle. Something, or someone.

“Yeah. You like your projects.”

Reiner shrugs. “Always have.”

Jean nods in agreement, then leans forward, both hands on the table, looking Reiner right in the face. This is it, this is important, this is what Reiner needs to know and understand. “Reiner… I’m not a project.”

Reiner sits back, his eyebrows rising in clear shock. “I never…!”

“Not on purpose,” Jean breaks in, needing to clarify, already afraid he’s making a mess of this. “I know you weren’t doing it on purpose, but…” He sighs, feeling the old pain rise up in his chest, the scars that never truly healed making themselves known again. “But my whole life, I’ve been treated like I was broken, like there was something _wrong_ with me, and when… and when you started planning everything out, when I knew you were… you were thinking about a life together, about getting _married_ , I… I couldn’t. I couldn’t live my life with you feeling like you were always trying to _fix_ me.”

Reiner looks baffled, and Jean braces himself against what he knows is coming. “How did you know I was going to ask you to marry me?”

It’s an easier, softer question than Jean was anticipating, and he manages a shaky smile. “You weren’t exactly subtle about it. But I knew for sure when I asked Bertolt and he confirmed it.”

“ _Bertolt_.” Reiner’s expression clouds over. “I told him not to say anything.”

“I’m glad he did.” Jean needs to steer the conversation away from this particular topic; the last thing he wants is to drive a wedge between Reiner and Bertolt. He’s frankly jealous of their bond and their history; all of his own childhood friends have been lost to time and transition. “He told me because he knew I was having doubts.”

Reiner looks stricken by that, the years dropping off his face, his shoulders hunching down defensively. Jean can’t remember ever seeing him look this raw, this exposed, before, and he’s glad Reiner has his back to Galliard and Marco. He thinks that if Galliard were to see this expression, he’d be charging over here to defend Reiner, and Marco might be tagging along with him. “You didn’t love me?”

“I always loved you, Reiner.” Jean says it softly, his voice pitched low enough that Reiner has to lean forward to hear. “I didn’t want that ruined.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.” And that had been the hardest part, the part that had laid Jean low and miserable for months after leaving: knowing how badly he’d hurt Reiner, and how Reiner wouldn’t have understood why. He’d almost broken down a dozen times, a hundred times, and called or texted, wanting to explain himself and be granted absolution. It had been Bertolt who had talked him back, who had gently, quietly steered him away from the destructive impulse, and told him to give Reiner time.

If Reiner doesn’t realize how much Bertolt has his back, and how much deep, simple affection Bertolt has for him, then he’s a fool.

“I thought about it, you know.” Jean stares deep into his coffee cup, unable to meet Reiner’s eyes. “I thought about letting you propose, and saying yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because we want different things.” It’s something Jean has known for a long time, but it’s the first time he’s ever vocalized it. “You want a family, and a house in the suburbs, and kids, and a dog.” Reiner starts when he mentions dogs, but Jean plows on. “If we’d have ended up together, if we’d gotten married, you would have pushed for that. You _know_ you would have pushed for that.”

“Don’t you want that too?”

Jean shakes his head. “Maybe someday, but not yet. Not now. I’m finally where I want to be, I’m finally doing what I want to do, and I need to do everything I couldn’t when I was younger.” He looks at Reiner, almost begging him to understand. “I made detective, and I’m out there doing _good_ work; I’m helping people and putting away shitholes that hurt people like us, like _me_ , and it’s where I need to be. But if we were married…”

Reiner interrupts, his voice soft and thoughtful. “I wouldn’t want you out there.”

“Yes!” Jean’s voice rises in excitement. “You’d want me to work in a small town, finding lost dogs and doing fundraisers at the elementary schools, and I…” His voice catches a little. “And that would _kill_ me. I would be miserable doing that, but I’d do it for you, and it would make me start to hate you. And… and I don’t want to hate you.” Jean scrubs at his eyes with one hand, hating the sudden, traitorous tears rising up in them. “I knew this would be hard, and that it was shitty to just take off like I did, but I figured it would be better to do it this way than to get twenty years down the road and realize we both couldn’t stand each other.”

Reiner is quiet for a moment, and Jean looks down at his plate, trying to get his rampaging emotions under control. Then he feels something touch his wrist, and when he looks up, Reiner is smiling at him, and lightly touching the back of his hand.

“I don’t hate you.”

Jean makes a gargling sound that’s mostly a laugh, and for just a moment, they’re holding hand across the table, and things are okay between them again. “I’m sorry, Reiner. I should’ve done it better than that.”

“You should have.” Reiner squeezes his hand before letting it go. “But I understand why now. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I never, ever thought there was anything wrong with you, or anything that needed to be fixed.”

And _that_ really does make Jean tear up, and Reiner quietly eats his lunch and waits for Jean to get himself back under control.

“So!” Reiner is all bright and perky when Jean finally looks back up, his eyes red-rimmed and his nose snotty, but feeling better than he has in months. “Tell me about Marco!”

Jean can’t help but laugh a little. “He’s my work partner. We work Hate Crimes together.”

“Is that like sex crimes?”

“Mostly.” Jean makes a face and stabs a french fry with his fork, his appetite suddenly returning. “The captain put Marco and I on it as a joke, I think. But then it turns out that the kind of people who get victimized by hate crimes respond better to us, so it worked out pretty well.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It’s really hard. But it’s something that needs to be done.” It’s hideously hard, emotionally draining like nothing Jean has ever experienced before, but it’s also exhilarating, intoxicating; it’s easy to get drunk on the knowledge that he’s making a difference, that he and Marco are _changing_ things, and for the better, and that they’re helping the people who need it the most. They’re helping _their_ people, and Jean has gotten used to that flash of recognition, that sudden realization from victims when they realize they’re among friends and people who _understand_ , and that makes the long hours and emotional fatigue worth it.

Reiner is watching him, watching with that laser intensity he has, and Jean is suddenly embarrassed. “What?”

Reiner shakes his head a little and smiles. “I don’t think I ever saw you this passionate about work before.”

“I was a beat cop before!” Jean waves a french fry dramatically, almost splattering them both with ketchup. “I was handing out traffic violations and chasing down thugs! And you _know_ how hard it was to prove I was ‘one of the guys!’”

“I know.” Reiner’s voice is quiet. “Is it still like that?”

Jean snorts, aggravated now. “Of course it is. New department, new captain, who thought it was fucking adorable to out me on the first day—and yes, I bitched to HR and he got reprimanded about it, which made me SUPER popular.” Jean shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “If it wasn’t for Marco, I would have washed out in a week.”

“Does Marco know?”

“Of course he does.” Jean would have told him, since they were going to be partners, but then the captain took that opportunity away from him.

“Does he care?”

“No.” Jean glances over Reiner’s shoulder, seeing Marco’s dark head bent towards Galliard’s reddish-blond one, and he feels that old, familiar ache in his chest, the one he’s never quite been able to shake, the one that Reiner couldn’t drive away and that Jean has just decided he has to live with. “He’s been nothing but cool about it.”

“So…” Reiner spreads his hands, looking at Jean expectantly.

Jean glares back. Only Reiner could go from having a conversation about getting his heart broken to wingmanning so quickly. “So what?”

“Sooooo…” A slow, knowing grin starts to spread across Reiner’s face, and Jean comes very close to throwing a french fry at him. 

“No.” Jean holds up a hand. “I don’t have it in me to have this conversation right now.”

“You deserve to be happy, you know.”

“So do you!”

“I am.” Reiner blinks at that, and then repeats it, like he can’t quite believe it himself. “I’m happy.”

Jean waits a moment, but Reiner doesn’t speak up again, looking a bit dazed at his sudden realization. “Good.” Jean puts his fry projectile down and reaches out to pat Reiner’s arm. “I’m glad.”

Reiner nods, and smiles, bright and beatific. It’s the smile Jean fell in love with, years ago, but now it just makes him feel warm. It no longer has the power to make his heart skip a beat. “You should still fuck Marco, though.”

Jean put his french fry down too soon. “I’m not in the mood to explain things right now.”

“ _I_ figured it out! And I was dumb as shit at first!”

“Yeah.” Jean grins, arching an eyebrow; this is better than a thrown french fry. “You really were.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“A quick study, though.”

“A quick study for what?”

Jean and Reiner both jump and swivel in their seats; Marco and Galliard are standing next to the booth, and Marco has his head tilted in that way he does, smiling softly, openly, and this time, Jean’s heart _does_ jog a little in his chest.

“Learning cop stuff,” Reiner fills in smoothly, and Galliard slides into the booth beside him, pushing Reiner out of the way with his hip so he can attack Reiner’s remaining fries.

“Ah.” Marco smiles politely, then turns his attention to Jean. “Are you guys done? I don’t want to rush you, but we’re due back in court in ten minutes.”

If Marco says ten, it’s really fifteen, as he’s constitutionally unable to be late for anything ever, but Jean slips out of his seat and stands next to him. “We good, Reiner?”

“Yes.” Reiner leans out around Galliard, who is now going after Jean’s leftover fries. “We’re good. Thanks for coming today, Jean.”

“No problem.”

“It was nice meeting you, Galliard,” Marco says sweetly, and Galliard looks up, swallowing his mouthful of food and grinning.

“Nice meeting you too. Send me a text sometime, okay?”

“I will.” And Jean knows Marco actually will, and that Reiner and Galliard will slowly start to seep into his life, and he wonders if he’ll be allowed to be a part of it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! There we have it! The story behind Jean and Reiner's breakup!
> 
> As mentioned in the beginning chapter notes, Jean talks about some sensitive issues here. I am always trying to do better and be better, so if I've botched anything with Jean and his representation, please let me know. This is my first time including a trans character in one of my stories and if I've made a mess of it, I want to know so I can fix it and improve.
> 
> ANYWAY! One chapter left, and an epilogue! Loose ends are getting tied up! Characters are getting set on the right paths! Will I manage to finish it before Christmas? Maybe!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Galliard gets to narrate, and we see the end of the story.

“Can I drive?”

Reiner tosses the car keys, and Galliard snatches them out of the air with a grin. His stomach is full from a cheesy, decadent lunch, he’s heard some cool cop stories, and now he gets to drive Reiner’s car again. Today is shaping up to be a good day.

Or rather, it will be a good day once he figures out what Reiner and Jean talked about.

Jean was absolutely nothing like what Galliard had pictured; when he and Marco had first walked into the diner, Galliard had thought Marco was Reiner’s ex. He had simply looked more the part, tall and square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with that rakish, debonair eyepatch and dark hair. When Jean had stepped forward and introduced himself, Galliard had had to keep himself from laughing, out of nerves and disbelief. Reiner has always presented himself as something of a muscle hound, and Jean is lean and lithe, a twink slowly aging into being a twunk. He’s handsome enough, with nice cheekbones and bright eyes, but Galliard’s growing beard is better, and he’s pretty sure he could benchpress Jean without even breaking a sweat.

He and Reiner get into the car, and Galliard pulls out into traffic. He hadn’t driven at all since moving to Trost, but Erwin had let him drive his truck down in Liberio, and it made Galliard realize how much he missed driving. Fortunately, Reiner doesn’t seem to mind handing over the car keys every time Galliard asks, and his fancy Mercedes Benz is the nicest car Galliard has ever driven.

Reiner sighs as he sinks into the passenger seat, and when Galliard glances across the car at him, he looks tired but satisfied. “It looks like you had fun today.”

“Yeah, I did.” Surprising, but he did. “Marco’s a pretty cool guy.”

Reiner chuckles softly. “Did he tell you a bunch of cop stories?”

“Yeah! Do you know what happened to his eye?”

“I don’t.” Reiner leans back and closes his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The story of Marco’s eyepatch, involving a stray bullet, shrapnel from a stone building, and chasing down a suspect while half-blind and with blood pouring down his face, takes the rest of the ride to the apartment.

When they’d first gotten back from Liberio, Galliard had made some token efforts at looking for a new place. After that first day, he hadn’t gone back to his old one, leaving behind everything he and Reiner couldn’t carry, and he’d spent a week or so cruising Craig’s List and looking at complexes online before he’d realized that he didn’t really _want_ a new apartment. He wanted to stay in Reiner’s, where he knows where things are, and where Reiner lives and works and stays, where a framed picture of the two of them from Liberio had mysteriously appeared on the mantle one day. He’d started bringing home groceries, and fixed a leaky pipe in Reiner’s bathroom—which had only involved one phone call to Mike to discuss beforehand, something Galliard is secretly very proud of—and just generally tried to make himself useful. He knows he can’t afford the rent on Reiner’s place, he doesn’t even know what the rent would _be_ , but he knows he can contribute in other ways, even if he’s not camming anymore and has cut back his hours at the club to once a week. That had been a hard decision, but he ultimately decided to stay at the club for now, because on some level, he enjoys the attention and the sleazy glamor of it. It’s easier to admit that now, now that it’s not a financial necessity.

He brings home steaks on the days after he works at the club, when he’s usually flush with cash and he can treat Reiner a little. Reiner is a true gentleman about Galliard’s dancing; he drives him to and from the club, and sometimes even goes in himself, enjoying an overpriced drink at the bar and watching Galliard dance.

It doesn’t hurt that they go home on those nights and have explosively good sex. That doesn’t hurt at all.

Reiner unlocks the door to the apartment and lets them in, and Galliard follows him inside, going immediately to the kitchen.

Reiner chuckles. “Are you still hungry?”

“No.” Galliard turns on the stove and sets the kettle on it. “I’m making you some tea.”

“I don’t need any tea.”

“Yes, you do.” Galliard will accept no argument. “Now go sit on the couch. I’ll bring it when it’s ready.”

Reiner chuckles again, but he goes, and when Galliard brings out two steaming mugs a few moments later, he’s waiting expectantly on the couch. He looks up when he hears Galliard come in, his face brightening, shining, when he sees him, and Galliard is slowly getting used to the idea that Reiner does that for him, that he’s the reason Reiner shines these days.

Galliard hands him his mug—chamomile, with two good squirts of honey added—and settles in next to him. “So?”

Reiner takes a sip. “So what?”

“So how’d it go with Jean?” Erwin had coached Galliard through this, when he’d called him last week and told him about what was happening, and Galliard is silently kicking himself for not accepting Erwin’s council for all those years. It’s amazing what can happen when he just shuts up and listens to what Reiner has to say to him.

Reiner looks down into his mug. “It went… it was good.” He swirls the water around a little, gathering his thoughts, and Galliard waits as patiently as he can. “It cleared the air.”

“Did he apologize?” If he didn’t, Galliard is storming right back to that court house to deliver an asskicking. Patience and listening is all well and good, but sometimes a beat-down is necessary too.

“He did.”

“ _Good_. He needed to.”

For some reason, that makes Reiner smile. “We both made mistakes. It wasn’t just him.”

“He still needed to apologize.” Galliard isn’t changing his mind on this.

“And he did.” Reiner sets down his mug on the coffee table, and lifts his arm to wrap it around Galliard’s shoulders. Galliard leans in against him, comfortable now with Reiner’s frequent displays of affection. It’s something he hadn’t realized he had needed, but now can’t imagine life without. There’s something deeply reassuring about knowing Reiner is there, and that Galliard can get a hug or a kiss whenever he asks for one. “He told me some things that I needed to hear.”

“Like what?” Galliard can’t help the sudden spike of anxiety that kicks through his chest.

Reiner doesn’t answer right away, but his arm tightens around Galliard, and Galliard rests his head on Reiner’s chest. The soft _lub_ of Reiner’s heartbeat echoes in his ear, and Galliard realizes that it sounds like home.

“Is it okay if we talk about it later?” Reiner lifts a hand and soothes it over Galliard’s hair, and Galliard lets him; they’re probably not leaving the house again today anyway, he doesn’t need to worry about how he looks. “I’m still processing it, you know?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Reiner sounds surprised. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Galliard shrugs; it does, a little, but he’s learning to deal with those feelings. “You came home with me, didn’t you?”

That makes Reiner laugh, and his lips brush across Galliard’s forehead. “I sure did.”

“Besides,” Galliard makes himself comfortable against Reiner’s chest. “Marco wants to fuck Jean.”

“ _Really_?” That has piqued Reiner’s interest. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Galliard grins, pleased with having the good gossip. “He told me.”

“He didn’t!” Reiner sits up straighter, shifting Galliard in his arms so he can see his face. “Tell me everything.”

And, safe in the circle of Reiner’s arms, safe at home, Galliard does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONCLUDED in the epilogue!


	27. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story ends.

**TWO YEARS LATER**

Reiner pulls the car up under the tree outside Galliard’s job, and just sits in the shade for a moment, enjoying the sunshine filtering through the leaves. After living his entire life in Trost’s city center, he’d never realized how much he would enjoy trees, and being somewhere with more natural spaces. The streets of Jinae are lined with lush shade trees, mature and thick-trunked, and Reiner still hasn’t gotten over the novelty.

He climbs out of the car—still the Mercedes, long paid off and still purring along—and walks across the parking lot, a brisk bounce in his step. A bell chimes as he walks into the office, and the receptionist looks up. She grins, recognizing him.

“Hi, Reiner!”

“Hey, Hannah.” Reiner strolls to the counter and leans against it. “How’s it going? Less morning sickness?”

“Oh, yes!” Her smile is so megawatt that Reiner almost wants to shield his eyes. “That stopped a few weeks ago.” She drops a hand to the small, gentle curve of her abdomen, cradling it protectively. “It’s going to be a boy.”

“That’s terrific!” Reiner knows that she and Franz both wanted a boy, and that the child will be deeply, deeply loved. “Have you considered Reiner for a name?”

“Ew, who’d name their kid _that_?” Galliard comes out of the back, his duffel bag already slung over his shoulder, the collar of his leather jacket—finally broken in, sitting properly across his shoulders—turned up rakishly.

“It’s a great name.”

“Uh huh.” Galliard stretches up for a kiss, one Reiner is happy to deliver. “Sounds like the kind of guy who’d meet his boyfriend at a strip club.”

Hannah giggles behind her hand and waves them out. “You guys have fun today.”

Galliard almost runs out to the car, and Reiner has to hustle to keep up. He wasn’t sure if Galliard was ready for this, but he already has the car turned on, the seat adjusted, and his seatbelt buckled by the time Reiner climbs into the passenger side.

“How was your day?” Galliard asks as he backs the car up and Reiner fastens his seatbelt.

“Good! I think we’ve finally reached a deal with that one case I was telling you about, the one with the two kids.” Leaving the intellectual property law firm had been an enormous leap of faith, one Reiner wouldn’t have been able to do without Galliard’s support, and he’d had to do supplemental work with them for six months while **Reiner Braun: Family Law** had gotten off the ground. But word of mouth has spread, he’s getting more business everyday, and Leo Magath, an old coworker from Reiner’s clerking days, is joining on next month as partner. The firm is small but growing and thriving, and while Reiner comes home exhausted everyday, he comes back satisfied and content in a way he’s never been before.

“Yeah? Glad to hear it; those kids deserve better.”

“They do.” Reiner leans back into his seat and watches Galliard from the corner of his eye. The beard is long gone, from when Galliard realized that it made him look intimidating during his internship. He stays clean-shaven now, his hair always neatly combed, and the only coffee he makes these days is with their Keurig. He has his own little cult following at the physical therapy clinic where it works: old women love him and ask for him by name, which amuses Reiner no end. Galliard had been baffled by it at first, but now he just runs with it, and their mailbox gets regular holidays cards from all his old patients.

Conversation flows easily between them, so full of patter and old jokes by this point that it’s practically another language. Reiner notices that Galliard gets quieter and quieter the longer they drive, and by the time he pulls up the car and stops it, Galliard has gone completely silent.

“Hey.” Reiner reaches across the car and puts his hand on Galliard’s. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Galliard breathes out in one long sigh, then nods, turning to look at Reiner as he takes his hand and squeezes it. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s time.”

“All right.” Reiner gets out of the car, and a few moments later, Galliard is standing beside him. Reiner takes his hand, and they walk into the animal shelter together.

“Hi!” They’re greeting by the sound of barking, the scent of antiseptic, and slightly frazzled woman. “What can I help you with today?”

Galliard swallows, and Reiner squeezes his hand. 

“We’re here for a dog,” he tells her, and she smiles and leads them towards the back.

“What kind of dog are you gentlemen looking for?”

“Not a lab.” That is Galliard’s only requirement; he loves labradors, and always will, but he’s not ready for another one. He and Reiner had determined that after several long talks, usually in the darkness of their bedroom when they’re going to sleep, so Galliard can sniffle a little about Sarge and not feel embarrassed.

The woman laughs. “Labs always go so fast. They’re really popular with the kids.”

Galliard nods in understanding. “Yeah. They’re… they’re great with kids.”

His voice only cracks a little, not enough for the woman to notice, and Reiner squeezes his hand again.

“Are you thinking about a puppy, or an adult?”

“Uh… can we just go play with them, and see which one clicks?”

“Of course!” She smiles as she lets them into the area with the dog runs. “That’s the best way to choose, after all!”

The room is a riot of barking and wagging tails, and Galliard sticks close to Reiner’s side at first. Then, once he’s determined that there aren’t any yellow labs in the kennels—if there had been, Reiner had had a hunch that they’d have come home with it, Galliard’s proclamations to the contrary or not—he drifts away, going from kennel to kennel, talking quietly to each tenant.

Reiner finds himself standing next to a kennel with a big, block-headed pit bull, white with brown spots, who wags his tail endearingly and slobbers all over his hands.

“Hey, good boy. Who’s a good boy?” The dog wags his tail and offers Reiner a paw, confirming that yes, he _is_ a good boy.

“That’s Mac.” The woman is back, and standing at Reiner’s elbow. “He’s about four years old, so out of that puppy phase. He gets along really well with all the other dogs, even the little ones, and doesn’t have any food aggression issues.”

“Why’d he get turned in?” Reiner slips a finger through the mesh gate to scratch the dog—Mac’s—ear, and he leans against the mesh and groans quietly at the attention.

“His family was moving, and couldn’t take him along.” The woman’s face clouds over a little. “We get a lot of that, these days. Not as much as we used to, but it still happens.”

“Poor guy.”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice is warm; Mac is clearly a favorite of hers. “He’s a real sweetheart. A great breed ambassador.”

“Ma’am?” Galliard is at the kennels with the smaller dogs. “Can I get this one out?”

“Of course, dear!” She hurries over to help him, and Reiner looks back down at Mac, who is watching him with huge, hopeful eyes.

“Stop that. We’re not here for me.” Mac wags his tail. “Someone will take you, buddy. You’re a good boy. You’ll get your home.”

Wag way, and another paw at the mesh.

Reiner has to walk away before Mac breaks his heart, but he’s too late; the little whine he hears as he walks away does it for him.

“What’ve you got?”

“Look.” Galliard holds up a little black dog, some kind of spaniel with woeful eyes and long, floppy ears. “This is…” He glances at the woman for confirmation.

“Dixie.”  


“Dixie.” Galliard offers her to Reiner, and he takes her. She’s barely bigger than a cat, but far calmer about being held, and stretches up to lick Reiner’s chin.

“She’s cute.” She’s _very_ cute, but far smaller than Reiner thought Galliard was looking for, and he arches a brow at him.

“Diane said that black dogs are the last ones to be adopted.”

Diane, the shelter worker, nods her head. “Black dogs and pitbulls. Especially _older_ pitbulls.”

Knife to the heart, the both of them. Reiner looks down at Dixie, and she stretches up to lick at him again.

When Reiner looks up, the soft, gentle look in Galliard’s eyes is almost too much for him, and he’s temporarily overwhelmed by how much he loves him, and how much he wants him to be happy. “Can we take her for a walk?”

“Of course! She’d love that!” And then Diane looks directly at Reiner, smiles sweetly, and asks, “Would you mind taking Mac too? He could use the exercise.”

Dammit, Diane.

~*~

After much wagging and play-bowing, Mac and Dixie walk nicely together. Dixie tugs more than Mac does, and Galliard laughs as he hustles after her, a bright, unaffected laugh that just makes Reiner’s heart pound. When Dixie pulls him ahead to sniff at a tree, Reiner looks down at Mac, trotting sedately beside him, and tells the dog a secret.

“I’m going to marry him someday.” Mac’s ears perk up, and his mouth splits open in a doggy grin. Reiner reaches down to ruffle his ears, and Mac leans against his leg.

“Hey, Reiner!” Galliard comes back, Dixie cradled against his chest, half-stuffed into his jacket. “Her. I want her.”

“All right.” Reiner forces himself to smile; Dixie is a good dog, and she’ll make Galliard happy. “She’s a cutie.”

“Yeah.” Galliard looks down at Mac, still leaning on Reiner’s leg, then back up at Reiner. He tilts his head to the side, his brows knitting together, and then he sighs before smiling. “You want him, too, don’t you?”

Reiner looks down, and Mac is watching him again, with those sweet, innocent eyes, and he thinks about what Diane said: pitbulls, especially older pitbulls, are the last ones to get adopted. The only way things could be worse for Mac were if he were a black dog. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“All right.”

Reiner looks up, surprised. “What?”

“All right.” Galliard steps closer, shifting Dixie to one arm so he can put the other one around Reiner’s waist. Dixie, delighted at being between them, wags her stumpy tail and tries to lick both their faces at the same time. “All right, let’s get two dogs.” He shrugs with his free shoulder, and the way he looks up at Reiner melts his heart. “I figured we might end up with two anyway.”

Reiner looks down at Galliard, and Galliard’s face is sweet and unlined and unburdened, free and untroubled and _happy_ , and Reiner will do anything to keep it that way.

“I love you.” 

Galliard blinks, surprised, and then he smiles as Reiner lifts one hand to cradle his cheek. “I love you too, you big dork.”

As Reiner lowers his head to kiss him, and Galliard stretches up to meet his lips, he thinks about the small box he has hidden in his sock drawer back home, and the simple gold band inside it. Dixie tries to lick their faces, and Mac barks and jumps in excitement around them, and Reiner knows: he’s home.

This is the home he’s always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, everyone! Thanks for staying with me on this wild ride!
> 
> Special thanks to:  
> \--Kaschy and Alina for the artwork that inspired this whole damn thing, and the artwork that inspired certain key (pornographic) scenes.  
> \--Dees, for talking me through this and commissioning the art, done last April, that was totally a spoiler for the ending the whole time, and no one knew except the two of us.  
> \--The Gallirei Discord chat group, for encouraging me every step of the way.  
> \--Momtaku, for giving me her blessing with Redneck Uncle Erwin.  
> \--Everyone who stood up for me during the whole plagiarism debacle, and who commented or reported or just told me when CanCan was reposted.  
> \--All you readers and Gallirei fans! The Gallirei fandom is the sweetest, most supportive fandom I've ever been in, thank you all for being so awesome.

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically Namaste with strippers instead of yoga instructors, and way more trauma and angst.
> 
> Please note that, while I have linked new chapters to my Tumblr, http://krakeryn.tumblr.com, I have NOT crossposted this fic to any other sites. It exists in its entirety on Ao3 and nowhere else.


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